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The  Secret 
Glory 


BOOKS    BY    ARTHUR     MACHEN 

THE  HOUSE     OF     SOULS 

THE  SECRET     GLORY 

THE  HILL     OF     DREAMS 

FAR  OFF    THINGS 

THE    THREE    IMPOSTORS 
(In    Preparation) 

NEW    YORK:    ALFRED    -A-    KNOPF 


Secret  Glory 


By  Arthur  Machen 


New  York 

Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 


Mcmxxii 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published  August,  19St 


Bet  up  and  printed  t>v  the  Vatt-Ballou  Co.,  Bingliamton,  N.  Y. 

Paper  /urniehed  6»  W.  V.  Etherinoton  A  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Bound  by  the  H.  Wolff  Estate,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


MANUFACTURED      IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF     AMERICA 


TO 
VINCENT    STARRETT 


_J_*.*> .•  .-  *_>  _  _^ 


Note 

One  of  the  schoolmasters  in  "The  Secret 
Glory"  has  views  on  the  subject  of  foot- 
ball similar  to  those  entertained  by  a  well- 
known  schoolmaster  whose  Biography  ap- 
peared many  years  ago.  That  is  the  only 
link  between  the  villain  of  invention  and 
the  good  man  of  real  life. 


PREFACE 

Some  years  ago  I  met  my  old  master,  Sir  Frank 
Benson — he  was  Mr.  F.  R.  Benson,  then — and  he 
asked  me  in  his  friendly  way  what  I  had  been  do- 
ing lately. 

"I  am  just  finishing  a  book,"  I  replied,  "a  book 
tliat  everybody  will  hate" 

"As  usual,"  said  the  Don  Quixote  of  our  English 
stage — if  I  knew  any  nobler  title  to  bestow  upon 
him,  I  would  bestow  it — "as  usual;  running  your 
head  against  a  stone  wall!" 

Well,  I  don't  know  about  "as  usual" ;  there 
may  be  something  to  be  said  for  the  personal 
criticism  or  there  may  not;  but  it  has  struck  me 
that  Sir  Frank's  remark  is  a  very  good  descrip- 
tion of  "The  Secret  Glory,"  the  book  I  had  in 
mind  as  I  talked  to  him.  It  is  emphatically  the 
history  of  an  unfortunate  fellow  who  ran  his 
head  against  stone  walls  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end.  He  could  think  nothing  and  do  nothing 
after  the  common  fashion  of  the  world;  even 
when  he  "went  wrong,"  he  did  so  in  a  highly  un- 
usual and  eccentric  manner.  It  will  be  for  the 
reader  to  determine  whether  he  were  a  saint  who 
had  lost  his  way  in  the  centuries  or  merely  an  un- 

ix 


PREFACE 

developed  lunatic;  I  hold  no  passionate  view  on 
either  side.  In  every  age,  there  are  people  great 
and  small  for  whom  the  times  are  out  of  joint, 
for  whom  everything  is,  somehow,  wrong  and 
askew.  Consider  Hamlet;  an  amiable  man  and 
an  intelligent  man.  But  what  a  mess  he  made-  of 
it!  Fortunately,  my  hero — or  idiot,  which  you 
will — was  not  called  upon  to  intermeddle  with 
affairs  of  State,  and  so  only  brought  himself  to 
grief:  if  it  were  grief;  for  the  least  chink  of  the 
door  should  be  kept  open,  I  am  inclined  to  hold, 
for  the  other  point  of  view.  I  have  just  been  re- 
reading Kipling's  "The  Miracle  of  Purun  Bha- 
gat,"  the  tale  of  the  Brahmin  Prime  Minister  of 
the  Native  State  in  India,  who  saw  all  the  world 
and  the  glory  of  it,  in  the  West  as  well  as  in  the 
East,  and  suddenly  abjured  all  to  become  a  hermit 
in  the  wood.  Was  he  mad,  or  was  he  supremely 
wise?  It  is  just  a  matter  of  opinion. 

The  origin  and  genesis  of  "The  Secret  Glory" 
were  odd  enough.  Once  on  a  time,  I  read  the 
life  of  a  famous  schoolmaster,  one  of  the  most 
notable  schoolmasters  of  these  later  days.  I  be- 
lieve he  was  an  excellent  man  in  every  way ;  but, 
somehow,  that  "Life"  got  on  my  nerves.  I 
thought  that  the  School  Songs — for  which, 
amongst  other  things,  this  master  was  famous — 
were  drivel;  I  thought  his  views  about  football, 
regarded,  not  as  a  good  game,  but  as  the  disci- 
pline and  guide  of  life,  were  rot,  and  poisonous 

x 


PREFACE 

rot  at  that.  In  a  word,  the  "Life"  of  this  excel- 
lent man  got  my  back  up. 

Very  good.  The  year  after,  schoolmasters 
and  football  had  ceased  to  engage  my  attention. 
I  was  deeply  interested  in  a  curious  and  minute 
investigation  of  the  wonderful  legend  of  the  Holy 
Grail;  or  rather,  in  one  aspect  of  that  extraordi- 
nary complex.  My  researches  led  me  to  the  con- 
nection of  the  Grail  Legend  with  the  vanished 
"Celtic  Church  which  held  the  field  in  Britain  in 
the  fifth  and  sixth  and  seventh  centuries;  I  under- 
took an  extraordinary  and  fascinating  journey 
into  a  misty  and  uncertain  region  of  Christian 
history.  I  must  not  say  more  here,  lest — as 
Nurse  says  to  the  troublesome  and  persistent 
child — /  "begin  all  over  again" ;  but,  indeed,  it 
was  a  voyage  on  perilous  seas,  a  journey  to  faery 
lands  forlorn — and  I  would  declare,  by  the  way, 
my  conviction  that  if  there  had  been  no  Celtic 
Church,  Keats  could  never  have  written  those 
lines  of  tremendous  evocation  and  incantation. 

Again;  very  good.  The  year  after,  it  came 
upon  me  to  write  a  book.  And  I  hit  upon  an  orig- 
inal plan;  or  so  I  thought.  I  took  my  dislike 
of  the  good  schoolmaster's  "Life"  I  took  my 
knowledge  of  Celtic  mysteries — and  combined  my 
information. 

Original,  this  plan!  It  was  all  thought  of 
years  before  I  was  born.  Do  you  remember  the 
critic  of  the  "Eatanswill  Gazette"?  He  had  to 

xi 


PREFACE 

review  for  that  admirable  journal  a  work  on 
Chinese  Metaphysics.  Mr.  Pott  tells  the  story 
of  the  article. 

"He  read  up  for  the  subject,  at  my  desire,  in 
the  Encyclopedia  Britannica  .  .  .  he  read  for 
metaphysics  under  the  letter  M,  and  for  China 
under  the  letter  C,  and  combined  his  informa- 
tion!" 


xn 


The  Secret 
Glory 


A  HEAVY  cloud  passed  swiftly  away  be- 
fore the  wind  that  came  with  the  night, 
and  far  in  a  clear  sky  the  evening  star 
shone  with  pure  brightness,  a  gleaming  world  set 
high  above  the  dark  earth  and  the  black  shadows 
in  the  lane.  In  the  ending  of  O'ctober  a  great 
storm  had  blown  from  the  west,  and  it  was 
through  the  bare  boughs  of  a  twisted  oak  that 
Ambrose  Meyrick  saw  the  silver  light  of  the 
star.  As  the  last  faint  flash  died  in  the  sky  he 
leaned  against  a  gate  and  gazed  upward;  and 
then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  dull  and1  weary  undula- 
tions of  the  land,  the  vast  circle  of  dun  plough- 
land  and  grey  meadow  bounded  by  a  dim  hori- 
zon, dreary  as  a  prison  wall.  He  remembered 
with  a  start  how  late  it  must  be;  he  should  have 
been  back  an  hour  before,  and  he  was  still  in  the 
open  country,  a  mile  away  at  least  from  the  out- 
skirts of  Lupton.  He  turned  from  the  star  and 
began  to  walk  as  quickly  as  he  could  along  the 
lane  through  the  puddles  and  the  sticky  clay, 
soaked  with  three  weeks'  heavy  rain. 

He  saw  at  last  the  faint  lamps  of  the  nearest 
streets    where    the    shoemakers    lived    and    he 


The  Secret  Glory 

tramped  hurriedly  through  this  wretched  quarter, 
past  its  penny  shops,  its  raw  public-house,  its 
rawer  chapel,  with  twelve  foundation-stones  on 
which  are  written  the  names  of  the  twelve  lead- 
ing Congregationalists  of  Lupton,  past  the  squall- 
ing children  whose  mothers  were  raiding  and 
harrying  them  to  bed.  Then  came  the  Free  Li- 
brary, an  admirable  instance,  as  the  Lupton  Mer- 
cury declared,  of  the  adaptation  of  Gothic  to  mod- 
ern requirements.  From  a  sort  of  tower  of  this 
building  a  great  arm  shot  out  and  hung  a  round 
clock-face  over  the  street,  and  Meyrick  experi- 
enced another  shock  when  he  saw  that  it  was 
even  later  than  he  had  feared.  He  had  to  get  to 
the  other  side  of  the  town,  and  it  was  past  seven 
already!  He  began  to  run,  wondering  what  his 
fate  would  be  at  his  uncle's  hands,  and  he  went 
by  "our  grand  old  parish  church"  (completely 
"restored"  in  the  early  'forties),  past  the  remains 
of  the  market-cross,  converted  most  successfully, 
according  to  local  opinion,  into  a  drinking  foun- 
tain for  dogs  and  cattle,  dodging  his  way  among 
the  late  shoppers  and  the  early  loafers  who 
lounged  to  and  fro  along  the  High  Street. 

He  shuddered  as  he  rang  the  bell  at  the  Old 
Grange.  He  tried  to  put  a  bold  face  on  it  when 
the  servant  opened  the  door,  and  he  would  have 
gone  straight  down  the  hall  into  the  schoolroom, 
but  the  girl  stopped  him. 

4 


The  Secret  Glory 

"Master  said  you're  to  go  to  the  study  at 
once,  Master  Meyrick,  as  soon  as  ever  you  come 
in." 

She  was  looking  strangely  at  him,  and  the  boy 
grew  sick  with  dread.  He  was  a  "funk"  through 
and  through,  and  was  frightened  out  of  his  wits 
about  twelve  times  a  day  every  day  of  his  life. 
His  uncle  had  said  a  few  years  before :  "Lupton 
will  make  a  man  of  you,"  and  Lupton  was  doing 
its  best.  The  face  of  the  miserable  wretch  whit- 
ened and  grew  wet;  there  was  a  choking  sensa- 
tion in  his  throat,  and  he  felt  very  cold,  Nelly 
Foran,  the  maid,  still  looked  at  him  with  strange, 
eager  eyes,  then  whispered  suddenly: 

"You  must  go  directly,  Master  Meyrick,  Mas- 
ter heard  the  bell,  I  know;  but  I'll  make  it  up 
to  you." 

Ambrose  understood  nothing  except  the  ap- 
proach of  doom.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and 
knocked  at  the  study  door,  and  entered  on  his 
uncle's  command. 

It  was  an  extremely  comfortable  room.  The 
red  curtains  were  drawn  close,  shutting  out  the 
dreary  night,  and  there  was  a  great  fire  of  coal 
that  bubbled  unctuously  and  shot  out  great  jets 
of  flame — in  the  schoolroom  they  used  coke. 
The  carpet  was  soft  to  the  feet,  and  the  chairs 
promised  softness  to  the  body,  and  the  walls 
were  well  furnished  with  books.  There  were 


The  Secret  Glory 

Thackeray,  Dickens,  Lord  Lytton,  uniform  in  red 
morocco,  gilt  extra;  the  Cambridge  Bible  for 
Students  in  many  volumes,  Stanley's  Life  of  Ar- 
nold, Coplestone's  Pr<electiones  Academics,  com- 
mentaries, dictionaries,  first  editions  of  Tenny- 
son, school  and  college  prizes  in  calf,  and,  of 
course,  a  great  brigade  of  Latin  and  Greek  clas- 
sics. Three  of  the  wonderful  and  terrible  pic- 
tures of  Piranesi  hung  in  the  room;  these  Mr. 
Horbury  admired  more  for  the  subject-matter 
than  for  the  treatment,  in  which  he  found,  as  he 
said,  a  certain  lack  of  the  aurea  mediocritas — 
almost,  indeed,  a  touch  of  morbidity.  The  gas 
was  turned  low,  for  the  High  Usher  was  writing 
at  his  desk,  and  a  shaded  lamp  cast  a  bright 
circle  of  light  on  a  mass  of  papers. 

He  turned  round  as  Ambrose  Meyrick  came 
in.  He  had  a  high,  bald  forehead,  and  his  fresh- 
coloured  face  was  edged  with  reddish  "mutton- 
chop"  whiskers.  There  was  a  dangerous  glint 
in  his  grey-green  eyes,  and  his  opening  sentence 
was  unpromising. 

"Now,  Ambrose,  you  must  understand  quite 
definitely  that  this  sort  of  thing  is  not  going  to 
be  tolerated  any  longer." 

Perhaps  it  would  not  have  fared  quite  so  badly 
with  the  unhappy  lad  if  only  his  uncle  had  not 
lunched  with  the  Head.  There  was  a  concatena- 
tion accordingly,  every  link  in  which  had  helped 

6 


The  Secret  Glory 

to  make  Ambrose  Meyrick's  position  hopeless. 
In  the  first  place  there  was  boiled  mutton  for 
luncheon,  and  this  was  a  dish  hateful  to  Mr. 
Horbury's  palate.  Secondly,  the  wine  was 
sherry.  Of  this  Mr.  Horbury  was  very  fond, 
but  unfortunately  the  Head's  sherry,  though 
making  a  specious  appeal  to  the  taste,  was  in 
reality  far  from  good  and  teemed  with  those 
fiery  and  irritating  spirits  which  make  the  liver 
to  burn  and  rage.  Then  Chesson  had  practically 
found  fault  with  his  chief  assistant's  work.  He 
had  not,  of  course,  told  him  in  so  many  words 
that  he  was  unable  to  teach;  he  had  merely  re- 
marked: 

"I  don't  know  whether  you've  noticed  it,  Hor- 
bury, but  it  struck  me  the  other  day  that  there 
was  a  certain  lack  of  grip  about  those  fellows  of 
yours  in  the  fifth.  Some  of  them  struck  me  as 
muddlers,  if  you  know  what  I  mean:  there  was  a 
sort  of  vagueness,  for  example,  about  their  con- 
struing in  that  chorus.  Have  you  remarked  any- 
thing of  the  kind  yourself?" 

And  then,  again,  the  Head  had  gone  on: 
"And,  by  the  way,  Horbury,  I  don't  quite 
know  what  to  make  of  your  nephew,  Meyrick. 
He  was  your  wife's  nephew,  wasn't  he?  Yes. 
Well,  I  hardly  know  whether  I  can  explain  what 
I  feel  about  the  boy;  but  I  can't  help  saying 
that  there  is  something  wrong  about  him.  His 

7 


The  Secret  Glory 

work  strikes  me  as  good1  enough — in  fact,  quite 
above  the  form  average — but,  to  use  the  musical 
term,  he  seems  to  be  in  the  wrong  key.  Of 
course,  it  may  be  my  fancy;  but  the  lad  reminds 
me  of  those  very  objectionable  persons  who  are 
said  to  have  a  joke  up  their  sleeve.  I  doubt 
whether  he  is  taking  the  Lupton  stamp ;  and  when 
he  gets  up  in  the  school  I  shall  be  afraid  of  his 
influence  on  the  other  boys." 

Here,  again,  the  master  detected  a  note  of 
blame;  and  by  the  time  he  reached  the  Old 
Grange  he  was  in  an  evil  humour.  He  hardly 
knew  which  he  found  the  more  offensive — Ches- 
son's  dish  or  his  discourse.  He  was  a  dainty 
man  in  his  feeding,  and  the  thought  of  the  great 
fat  gigot  pouring  out  a  thin  red1  stream  from  the 
gaping  wound  dealt  to  it  by  the  Head  mingled 
with  his  resentment  of  the  indirect  scolding  which 
he  considered  that  he  had  received,  and  on  the 
fire  just  kindled  every  drop  of  that  corrosive 
sherry  was  oil.  He  drank  his  tea  in  black  silence, 
his  rage  growing  fiercer  for  want  of  vent,  and 
it  is  doubtful  whether  in  his  inmost  heart  he  was 
altogether  displeased  when  report  was  made  at 
six  o'clock  that  Meyrick  had  not  come  in.  He 
saw  a  prospect — more  than  a  prospect — of  satis- 
factory relief. 

Some  philosophers  have  affirmed  that  lunatic 
doctors  (or  mental  specialists)  grow  in  time  to  a 

8 


The  Secret  Glory 

certain  resemblance  to  their  patients,  or,  in  more 
direct  language,  become  half  mad  themselves. 
There  seems  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  the  posi- 
tion; indeed,  it  is  probably  a  more  noxious  mad- 
ness to  swear  a  man  into  perpetual  imprison- 
ment in  the  company  of  maniacs  and  imbeciles  be- 
cause he  sings  in  his  bath  and  will  wear  a  purple 
dressing-gown  at  dinner  than  to  fancy  oneself 
Emperor  of  China.  However  this  may  be,  it  is 
very  certain  that  in  many  cases  the  schoolmaster 
is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  bloated  schoolboy: 
the  beasts  are,  radically,  the  same,  but  morbid 
conditions  have  increased  the  venom  of  the  for- 
mer's sting.  Indeed,  it  is  not  uncommon  for 
well-wishers  to  the  great  Public  School  System  to 
praise  their  favourite  masters  in  terms  which  ad- 
mit, nay,  glory  in,  this  identity.  Read  the  me- 
morial tributes  to  departed  Heads  in  a  well- 
known  and  most  respectable  Church  paper.  "To 
the  last  he  was  a  big  boy  at  heart,"  writes  Canon 
Diver  of  his  friend,  that  illiterate  old  sycophant 
who  brought  up  the  numbers  of  the  school  to 
such  a  pitch  by  means  of  his  conciliator  policy 
to  Jews,  Turks,  heretics  and  infidels  that  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  make  him  a  bishop. 
"I  always  thought  he  seemed  more  at  home  in 
the  playing  fields  than  in  the  sixth-form  room. 
.  .  .  He  had  all  the  English  boy's  healthy  horror 
of  anything  approaching  pose  or  eccentricity. 

9 


The  Secret  Glory 

.  .  .  He  could:  be  a  severe  disciplinarian  when 
severity  seemed  necessary,  but  everybody  in  the 
school  knew  that  a  well-placed  'boundary,'  a  dif- 
ficult catch  or  a  goal  well  won  or  well  averted 
would  atone  for  all  but  the  most  serious  offences." 
There  are  many  other  points  of  resemblance  be- 
tween the  average  master  and  the  average  boy: 
each,  for  example,  is  intensely  cruel,  and  experi- 
ences a  quite  abnormal  joy  in  the  infliction  of 
pain.  The  baser  boy  tortures  those  animals 
which  are  not  mediants.  Tales  have  been  told 
(they  are  hushed  up  by  all  true  friends  of  the 
"System")  of  wonderful  and  exquisite  orgies  in 
lonely  hollows  of  the  moors,  in  obscure  and  hid- 
den thickets:  tales  of  a  boy  or  two,  a  lizard  or  a 
toad,  and  the  slow  simmering  heat  of  a  bonfire. 
But  these  are  the  exceptional  pleasures  of  the 
virtuosi;  for  the  average  lad  there  is  plenty  of 
fun  to  be  got  out  of  his  feebler  fellows,  of  whom 
there  are  generally  a  few  even  in  the  healthiest 
community.  After  all,  the  weakest  must  go  to 
the  wall,  and  if  the  bones  of  the  weakest  are 
ground  in  the  process,  that  is  their  fault.  When 
some  miserable  little  wretch,  after  a  year  or  two 
of  prolonged  and  exquisite  torture  of  body  and 
mind,  seeks  the  last  escape  of  suicide,  one  knows 
how  the  Old  Boys  will  come  forward,  how  gal- 
lantly they  will  declare  that  the  days  at  the  "dear 
old  school"  were  the  happiest  in  their  lives;  how 

10 


The  Secret  Glory 

"the  Doctor"  was  their  father  and  the  Sixth  their 
nursing-mother;  how  the  delights  of  the  Mahom- 
edans'  fabled  Paradise  are  but  grey  and  weary 
sport  compared  with  the  joys  of  the  happy  fag, 
whose  heart,  as  the  inspired  bard  of  Harrow  tells 
us,  will  thrill  in  future  years  at  the  thought  of 
the  Hill.  They  write  from  all  quarters,  these 
brave  Old  Boys:  from  the  hard-won  Deanery, 
result  of  many  years  of  indefatigable  attack  on 
the  fundamental  doctrines  of  the  Christian  faith; 
from  the  comfortable  villa,  the  reward  of  com- 
mercial activity  and  acuteness  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change; from  the  courts  and  from  the  camps; 
from  all  the  high  seats  of  the  successful;  and  com- 
mon to  them  all  is  the  convincing  argument  of 
praise.  And  we  all  agree,  and  say  there  is  noth- 
ing like  our  great  Public  Schools,  and  perhaps  the 
only  dissentient  voices  are  those  of  the  father 
and  mother  who  bury  the  body  of  a  little  child 
about  whose  neck  is  the  black  sign  of  the  rope. 
But  let  them  be  comforted :  the  boy  was  no  good 
at  games,  though  his  torments  were  not  bad 
sport  while  he  lasted. 

Mr.  Horbury  was  an  old  Luptonian;  he  was, 
in  the  words  of  Canon  Diver,  but  "a  big  boy  at 
heart,"  and  so  he  gave  orders  that  Meyrick  was 
to  be  sent  in  the  study  directly  he  came  in,  and 
he  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  desk  before  him 
with  satisfaction  and  yet  with  impatience.  A 

II 


The  Secret  Glory 

hungry  man  may  long  for  his  delayed  dinner  al- 
most with  a  sense  of  fury,  and  yet  at  the  back  of 
his  mind  he  cannot  help  being  consoled  by  the 
thought  of  how  wonderfully  he  will  enjoy  the 
soup  when  it  appears  at  last.  When  seven 
struck,  Mr.  Horbury  moistened  his  lips  slightly. 
He  got  up  and  felt  cautiously  behind  one  of  the 
bookshelves.  The  object  was  there,  and  he  sat 
down  again.  He  listened;  there  were  footfalls 
on  the  drive.  Ah!  there  was  the  expected  ring. 
There  was  a  brief  interval,  and  then  a  knock. 
The  fire  was  glowing  with  red  flashes,  and  the 
wretched  toad  was  secured. 

"Now,  Ambrose,  you  must  understand  quite 
definitely  that  this  sort  of  thing  isn't  going  to  be 
tolerated  any  longer.  This  is  the  third  time  dur- 
ing this  term  that  you  have  been  late  for  lock- 
up. You  know  the  rules:  six  o'clock  at  latest. 
It  is  now  twenty  minutes  past  seven.  What  ex- 
cuse have  you  to  make?  What  have  you  been 
doing  with  yourself?  Have  you  been  in  the 
Fields?" 

"No,  Sir." 

"Why  not?  You  must  have  seen  the  Resolu- 
tion of  the  Sixth  on  the  notice-board  of  the  High 
School?  You  know  what  it  promised  any  boy 
who  shirked  rocker?  'A  good  sound  thrashing 
with  tuds  before  the  First  Thirty.'  I  am  afraid 
you  will  have  a  very  bad  time  of  it  on  Monday, 

12 


The  Secret  Glory 

after  Graham  has  sent  up  your  name  to  the 
Room." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Horbury  looked 
quietly  and  lengthily  at  the  boy,  who  stood  white 
and  sick  before  him.  He  was  a  rather  sallow, 
ugly  lad  of  fifteen.  There  was  something  of  in- 
telligence in  his  expression,  and  it  was  this  glance 
that  Chesson,  the  Headmaster,  had  resented. 
His  heart  beat  against  his  breast,  his  breath  came 
in  gasps  and  the  sweat  of  terror  poured  down 
his  body.  The  master  gazed  at  him,  and  at  last 
spoke  again. 

"But  what  have  you  been  doing?  Where  have 
you  been  all  this  time?" 

"If  you  please,  Sir,  I  walked  over  to  Selden 
Abbey." 

"To  Selden  Abbey?  Why,  it's  at  least  six 
miles  away!  What  on  earth  did  you  want  to  go 
to  Selden  Abbey  for?  Are  you  fond  of  old 
stones?" 

"If  you  please,  Sir,  I  wanted  to  see  the  Nor- 
man arches.  There  is  a  picture  of  them  in 
Parker's  Glossary  " 

"Oh,  I  see !  You  are  a  budding  antiquarian, 
are  you,  Ambrose,  with  an  interest  in  Norman 
arches — eh?  I  suppose  we  are  to  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  your  researches  will  have  made 
Lupton  famous  ?  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  lec- 
ture to  the  school  on  St.  Paul's  Cathedral? 

13 


The  Secret  Glory 

Pray,  what  are  your  views  as  to  the  age  of  Stone- 
henge?" 

The  wit  was  heavy  enough,  but  the  speaker's 
position  gave  a  bitter  sting  to  his  lash.  Mr. 
Horbury  saw  that  every  cut  had  told,  and,  with- 
out prejudice  to  more  immediate  and  acuter 
pleasures,  he  resolved  that  such  biting  satire 
must  have  a  larger  audience.  Indeed,  it  was  a 
long  time  before  Ambrose  Meyrick  heard  the 
last  of  those  wretched  Norman  arches.  The 
method  was  absurdly  easy.  "Openings"  pre- 
sented themselves  every  day.  For  example,  if 
the  boy  made  a  mistake  in  construing,  the  retort 
was  obvious : 

"Thank  you,  Meyrick,  for  your  most  original 
ideas  on  the  force  of  the  aorist.  Perhaps  if  you 
studied  your  Greek  Grammar  a  little  more  and 
your  favourite  Glossary  of  Architecture  a  little 
less,  it  would  be  the  better.  Write  out  'Aorist 
means  indefinite'  five  hundred  times." 

Or,  again,  perhaps  the  Classic  Orders  were 
referred  to.  Mr.  Horbury  would  begin  to  in- 
struct the  form  as  to  the  difference  between  Ionic 
and  Doric.  The  form  listened  with  poor  imita- 
tion of  interest.  Suddenly  the  master  would 
break  off: 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  forgetting  that 
we  have  a  great  architectural  authority  amongst 
us.  Be  so  kind  as  to  instruct  us,  Meyrick. 


The  Secret  Glory 

What  does  Parker  say?  Or  perhaps  you  have 
excogitated  some  theories  of  your  own?  I  know 
you  have  an  original  mind,  from  the  extraordi- 
nary quantities  of  your  last  copy  of  verse.  By 
the  way,  I  must  ask  you  to  write  out  'The  e  in 
•venio  is  short'  five  hundred  times.  I  am  sorry  to 
interfere  with  your  more  important  architectural 
studies,  but  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

And  so  on;  while  the  form  howled  with  amuse- 
ment. 

But  Mr.  Horbury  kept  these  gems  for  future 
and  public  use.  For  the  moment  he  had  more 
exciting  work  on  hand.  He  burst  out  suddenly: 

"The  fact  is,  Ambrose  Meyrick,  you're  a  miser- 
able little  humbug!  You  haven't  the  honesty  to 
say,  fair  and  square,  that  you  funked  rocker  and 
went  loafing  about  the  country,  looking  for  any 
mischief  you  could  lay  your  hands  on.  Instead 
of  that  you  make  up  this  cock-and-bull  story  of 
Selden  Abbey  and  Norman  arches — as  if  any  boy 
in  his  senses  ever  knew  or  cared  twopence  about 
such  things !  I  hope  you  haven't  been  spending 
the  afternoon  in  some  low  public-house?  There, 
don't  speak!  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  lies. 
But,  whatever  you  have  been  doing,  you  have 
broken  the  rules,  and  you  must  be  taught  that 
the  rules  have  to  be  kept.  Stand  still!" 

Mr.  Horbury  went  to  the  bookshelf  and  drew 
out  the  object.  He  stood  at  a  little  distance  be- 

15 


The  Secret  Glory 

hind  Meyrick  and  opened  proceedings  with  a 
savage  cut  at  his  right  arm,  well  above  the  el- 
bow. Then  it  was  the  turn  of  the  left  arm,  and 
the  master  felt  the  cane  bite  so  pleasantly  into 
the  flesh  that  he  distributed  some  dozen  cuts  be- 
tween the  two  arms.  Then  he  turned  his  atten- 
tion to  the  lad's  thighs  and  finished  up  in  the  or- 
thodox manner,  Meyrick  bending  over  a  chair. 

The  boy's  whole  body  was  one  mass  of  burn- 
ing, stinging  torture;  and,  though  he  had  not  ut- 
tered a  sound  during  the  process,  the  tears  were 
streaming  down  his  cheeks.  It  was  not  the  bod- 
ily anguish,  though  that  was  extreme  enough,  so 
much  as  a  far-off  recollection.  He  was  quite  a 
little  boy,  and  his  father,  dead  long  since,  was 
showing  him  the  western  doorway  of  a  grey 
church  on  a  high  hill  and  carefully  instructing 
him  in  the  difference  between  "billetty"  and 
"chevronny." 

"It's  no  good  snivelling,  you  know,  Ambrose. 
I  daresay  you  think  me  severe,  but,  though  you 
won't  believe  me  now,  the  day  will  come  when 
you  will  thank  me  from  your  heart  for  what  I 
have  just  done.  Let  this  day  be  a  turning-point 
in  your  life.  Now  go  to  your  work." 

II 

It  was  strange,  but  Meyrick  never  came  in  the 
after  days  and  thanked  his  uncle  for  that  sharp 

16 


The  Secret  Glory 

dose  of  physical  and  mental  pain.  Even  when 
he  was  a  man  he  dreamed  of  Mr.  Horbury  and 
woke  up  in  a  cold  sweat,  and  then  would  fall 
asleep  again  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief  and  glad- 
ness as  he  realised  that  he  was  no  longer  in  the 
power  of  that  "infernal  old  swine,"  "that  filthy, 
canting,  cruel  brute,"  as  he  roughly  called  his  old 
master. 

The  fact  was,  as  some  old  Luptonians  re- 
marked, the  two  had  never  understood  one  an- 
other. With  the  majority  of  the  boys  the  High 
Usher  passed  for  a  popular  master  enough.  He 
had  been  a  distinguished  athlete  in  his  time,  and 
up  to  his  last  days  at  the  school  was  a  football 
enthusiast.  Indeed,  he  organised  a  variety  of 
the  Lupton  game  which  met  with  immense  popu- 
larity till  the  Head  was  reluctantly  compelled  to 
stop  it;  some  said  because  he  always  liked  to 
drop  bitter  into  Horbury's  cup  when  possible; 
others — and  with  more  probability  on  their  side 
— maintained  that  it  was  in  consequence  of  a  re- 
port received  from  the  school  doctor  to  the  ef- 
fect that  this  new  species  of  football  was  rapidly 
setting  up  an  old  species  of  heart  disease  in  the 
weaker  players. 

However  that  might  be,  there  could  be  no 
doubt  as  to  Horbury's  intense  and  deep-rooted 
devotion  to  the  school.  His  father  had  been  a 
Luptonian  before  him.  He  himself  had  gone 

17 


The  Secret  Glory 

from  the  school  to  the  University,  and  within  a 
year  or  two  of  taking  his  degree  he  had  returned 
to  Lupton  to  serve  it  as  a  master.  It  was  the 
general  opinion  in  Public  School  circles  that  the 
High  Usher  had  counted  for  as  much  as  Chesson," 
the  Headmaster,  if  not  for  more,  in  the  immense 
advance  in  prestige  and  popularity  that  the  school 
had  made;  and  everybody  thought  that  when 
Chesson  received  the  episcopal  order  Horbury's 
succession  was  a  certainty.  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, there  were  wheels  within  wheels,  and  a  total 
stranger  was  appointed,  a  man  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  famous  Lupton  traditions,  who  (  it  was 
whispered)  had  been  heard  to  say  that  "this  ath- 
letic business"  was  getting  a  bit  overdone.  Mr. 
Horbury's  friends  were  furious,  and  Horbury 
himself,  it  was  supposed,  was  bitterly  disap- 
pointed. He  retreated  to  one  of  the  few  decent 
canonries  which  have  survived  the  wave  of  agri- 
cultural depression;  but  those  who  knew  him  best 
doubted  whether  his  ecclesiastical  duties  were  an 
adequate  consolation  for  the  loss  of  that  coveted 
Headmastership  of  Lupton. 

To  quote  the  memoir  which  appeared  in  the 
Guardian  soon  after  his  death,  over  some  well- 
known  initials: 

"His  friends  were  shocked  when  they  saw  him 
at  the  Residence.  He  seemed  no  longer  the 
same  man,  he  had  aged  more  in  six  months,  as 

18 


The  Secret  Glory 

some  of  them  expressed  themselves,  than  in  the 
dozen  years  before.  The  old  joyous  Horbury, 
full  of  mirth,  an  apt  master  of  word-play  and 
logic-fence,  was  somehow  'dimmed,'  to  use  the 
happy  phrase  of  a  former  colleague,  the  Dean  of 
Dorchester.  Old  Boys  who  remembered  the 
sparkle  of  his  wit,  the  zest  which  he  threw  into 
everything,  making  the  most  ordinary  form-work 
better  fun  than  the  games  at  other  schools,  as  one 
of  them  observed,  missed  something  indefinable 
from  the  man  whom  they  had  loved  so  long  and 
so  well.  One  of  them,  who  had  perhaps  pene- 
trated as  closely  as  any  into  the  arcana  of  Hor- 
bury's  friendship  (a  privilege  which  he  will  ever 
esteem  as  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  of  his 
life),  tried  to  rouse  him  with  an  extravagant  ru- 
mour which  was  then  going  the  round  of  the 
popular  Press,  to  the  effect  that  considerable 
modifications  were  about  to  be  introduced  into 
the  compulsory  system  of  games  at  X.,  one  of  the 
greatest  of  our  great  Public  Schools.  Horbury 
flushed;  the  old  light  came  into  his  eyes;  his  friend 
was  reminded  of  the  ancient  war-horse  who  hears 
once  more  the  inspiring  notes  of  the  trumpet. 
'I  can't  believe  it,'  he  said,  and  there  was  a  tre- 
mor in  his  voice.  'They  wouldn't  dare.  Not 
even  Y.  (the  Headmaster  of  X.)  would  do  such 
a  scoundrelly  thing  as  that.  I  won't  believe  it.' 
But  the  flush  soon  faded  and  his  apathy  returned. 


The  Secret  Glory 

'After  all,'  he  said,  'I  shouldn't  wond'er  if  it  were 
so.  Our  day  is  past,  I  suppose,  and  for  all  I 
know  they  may  be  construing  the  Breviary 
and  playing  dominoes  at  X.  in  a  few  years' 
time.' 

"I  am  afraid  that  those  last  years  at  Ware- 
ham  were  far  from  happy.  He  felt,  I  think,  out 
of  tune  with  his  surroundings,  and,  pace  the 
readers  of  the  Guardian,  I  doubt  whether  he  was 
ever  quite  at  home  in  his  stall.  He  confessed  to 
one  of  his  old  associates  that  he  doubted  the  wis- 
dom of  the  whole  Cathedral  system.  'What,' 
he  said,  in  his  old  characteristic  manner,  'would 
St.  Peter  say  if  he  could  enter  this  building  and 
see  that  gorgeous  window  in  which  he  is  repre- 
sented with  mitre,  cope  and  keys?'  And  I  do 
not  think  that  he  was  ever  quite  reconciled  to  the 
daily  recitation  of  the  Liturgy,  accompanied  as 
it  is  in  such  establishments  by  elaborate  music 
and  all  the  pomp  of  the  surpliced  choir.  'Rome 
and  water,  Rome  and  water !'  he  has  been  heard 
to  mutter  under  his  breath  as  the  procession  swept 
up  the  nave,  and  before  he  died  I  think  that  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  many  in  high 
places  were  coming  round  to  his  views. 

"But  to  the  very  last  he  never  forgot  Lupton. 
A  year  or  two  before  he  died  he  wrote  the  great 
school  song,  'Follow,  follow,  follow!'  He  was 
pleased,  I  know,  when  it  appeared  in  the  Lup- 

20 


The  Secret  Glory 

toman,  and  a  famous  Old  Boy  informs  me  that 
he  will  never  forget  Horbury's  delight  when  he 
was  told  that  the  song  was  already  a  great  fa- 
vourite in  'Chantry.'  To  many  of  your  readers 
the  words  will  be  familiar;  but  I  cannot  resist 
quoting  the  first  verse: 

"I  am  getting  old  and  grey  and  the  hills  seem  far  away, 
And  I  cannot  hear  the  horn  that  once  proclaimed  the 

morn 

When  we  sallied  forth  upon  the  chase  together ; 
For   the  years   are  gone — alack! — when  we  hastened 

on  the  track, 
And  the  huntsman's  whip  went  crack!  as  a  signal  to 

our  pack 

Riding  in  the  sunshine  and  fair  weather. 
And  yet  across  the  ground 
I  seem  to  hear  a  sound, 

A  sound  that  comes  up  floating  from  the  hollow; 
And  its  note  is  very  clear 
As  it  echoes  in  my  ear, 

And    the    words    are:     'Lupton,    follow,     follow, 
follow!' 

Chorus. 

"Lupton,  follow  away! 
The  darkness  lies  behind  us,  and  before  us  is  the  day. 

Follow,  follow  the  sun, 

The  whole  world's  to  be  won, 
So,  Lupton,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow  away! 
21 


The  Secret  Glory 

"An  old1  pupil  sang  this  verse  to  him  on  his 
death-bed,  and  I  think,  perhaps,  that  some  at 
least  of  the  readers  of  the  Guardian  will  allow 
that  George  Horbury  died  'fortified,'  in  the  truest 
sense,  'with  the  rites  of  the  Church' — the  Church 
of  a  Great  Aspiration." 

Such  was  the  impression  that  Mr.  Horbury  had 
evidently  made  upon  some  of  his  oldest  friends; 
but  Meyrick  was,  to  the  last,  an  infidel.  He 
read  the  verses  in  the  Guardian  (he  would  never 
subscribe  to  the  Luptonian]  and  jeered  savagely 
at  the  wJiole  sentiment  of  the  memoir,  and  at 
the  poetry,  too. 

"Isn't  it  incredible?"  he  would  say.  "Let's 
allow  that  the  main  purpose  of  the  great  Public 
Schools  is  to  breed  brave  average  boobies  by 
means  of  rocker,  sticker  and  mucker  and  the  rest 
of  it.  Still,  they  do  acknowledge  that  they  have 
a  sort  of  parergon — the  teaching  of  two  great 
literatures,  two  literatures  that  have  moulded  the 
whole  of  Western  thought  for  more  than  two 
thousand  years.  And  they  pay  an  animal  like  this 
to  teach  these  literatures — a  swine  that  has  not 
enough  literature  of  any  kind  in  him  to  save  the 
soul  of  a  louse  !  Look  at  those  verses !  Why,  a 
decent  fourth  form  boy  would  be  ashamed  to  put 
his  name  to  them!" 

He  was  foolish  to  talk  in  this  fashion.  Peo- 
ple merely  said  that  it  was  evident  he  was  one  of 

22 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  failures  of  the  great  Public  School  system; 
and  the  song  was  much  admired  in  the  right  cir- 
cles. A  very  well-turned  idem  Latine  appeared 
in  the  Guardian  shortly  after  the  publication  of 
the  memoir,  and  the  initials  at  the  foot  of  the 
version  were  recognised  as  those  of  a  literary 
dean. 

And  on  that  autumn  evening,  far  away  in  the 
'seventies,  Meyrick,  the  boy,  left  Mr.  Horbury's 
study  in  a  white  fury  of  grief  and  pain  and  rage. 
He  would  have  murdered  his  master  without  the 
faintest  compunction,  nay,  with  huge  delight. 
Psychologically,  his  frame  of  mind  was  quite  in- 
teresting, though  he  was  only  a  schoolboy  who 
had  just  had  a  sound  thrashing  for  breaking  rules. 

For  the  fact,  of  course,  was  that  Horbury,  the 
irritating  influence  of  the  Head's  conversation 
and  sherry  apart,  was  by  no  means  a  bad  fellow. 
He  was  for  the  moment  savagely  cruel,  but  then, 
most  men  are  apt  to  be  savagely  cruel  when  they 
suffer  from  an  inflamed  liver  and  offensive  su- 
periors, more  especially  when  there  is  an  inferior, 
warranted  defenceless,  in  their  power.  But,  in 
the  main,  Horbury  was  a  very  decent  specimen 
of  his  class — English  schoolmaster — and  Mey- 
rick would  never  allow  that.  In  all  his  reasoning 
about  schools  and  schoolmasters  there  was  a  fatal 
flaw — he  blamed  both  for  not  being  what  they 
never  pretended  to  be.  To  use  a  figure  that 

23 


The  Secret  Glory 

would  have  appealed  to  him,  it  was  if  one  quar- 
relled with  a  plain,  old-fashioned  meeting-house 
because  it  was  not  in  the  least  like  Lincoln  Cathe- 
dral. A  chimney  may  not  be  a  decorative  object, 
but  then  it  does  not  profess  to  be  a  spire  or  a 
pinnacle  far  in  the  spiritual  city. 

But  Meyrick  was  always  scolding  meeting- 
houses because  they  were  not  cathedrals.  He  has 
been  heard  to  rave  for  hours  against  useful,  un- 
pretentious chimney-pots  because  they  bore  no  re- 
semblance to  celestial  spires.  Somehow  or  other, 
possibly  by  inheritance,  possibly  by  the  influence 
of  his  father's  companionship,  he  had  uncon- 
sciously acquired  a  theory  of  life  which  bore  no 
relation  whatever  to  the  facts  of  it.  The  theory 
was  manifest  in  his  later  years;  but  it  must  have 
been  stubbornly,  if  vaguely,  present  in  him  all 
through  his  boyhood.  Take,  for  instance,  his 
comment  on  poor  Canon  Horbury's  verses.  He 
judged  those,  as  we  have  seen,  by  the  rules  of  the 
fine  art  of  literature,  and  found  them  rubbish. 
Yet  any  old  Luptonian  would  have  told  him  that 
to  hear  the  whole  six  hundred  boys  join  in  the 
chorus,  "Lupton,  follow  away!"  was  one  of  the 
great  experiences  of  life;  from  which  it  appears 
that  the  song,  whatever  its  demerits  from  a  liter- 
ary point  of  view,  fully  satisfied  the  purpose  for 
which  is  was  written.  In  other  words,  it  was  an 
excellent  chimney,  but  Meyrick  still  persisted  in 

24 


The  Secret  Glory 

his  easy  and  futile  task  of  proving  that  it  was 
not  a  bit  like  a  spire.  Then,  again,  one  finds  a 
fallacy  of  still  huger  extent  in  that  major  premiss 
of  his :  that  the  great  Public  Schools  purpose  to 
themselves  as  a  secondary  and  minor  object  the 
imparting  of  the  spirit  and  beauty  of  the  Greek 
and  Latin  literatures.  Now,  it  is  very  possible 
that  at  some  distant  period  in  the  past  this  was 
an  object,  of  even,  perhaps,  the  object  of  the 
institutions  in  question.  The  Humanists,  it  may 
be  conjectured,  thought  of  school  and  University 
as  places  where  Latin  and  Greek  were  to  be 
learned,  and  to  be  learned  with  the  object  of  en- 
joying the  great  thought  and  the  great  style  of 
an  antique  world.  One  sees  the  spirit  of  this  in 
Rabelais,  for  example.  The  Classics  are  a  won- 
derful adventure;  to  learn  to  understand  them  is 
to  be  a  spiritual  Columbus,  a  discoverer  of  new 
seas  and  unknown  continents,  a  drinker  of  new- 
old  wine  in  a  new-old  land.  To  the  student  of 
those  days  a  mysterious  drowned  Atlantis  again 
rose  splendid  from  the  waves  of  the  great  deep. 
It  was  these  things  that  Meyrick  (unconsciously, 
doubtless)  expected  to  find  in  his  school  life;  it 
was  for  the  absence  of  these  things  that  he  con- 
tinued to  scold  the  system  in  his  later  years; 
wherein,  like  Jim  in  Huckleberry  Finn,  he  missed 
the  point  by  a  thousand  miles. 

The  Latin  and  Greek  of  modern  instruction  are, 

25 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  course,  most  curious  and  interesting  survivals; 
no  longer  taught  with  any  view  of  enabling  stu- 
dents to  enjoy  and  understand  either  the  thought 
or  beauty  of  the  originals;  taught  rather  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  nauseate  the  learner  for  the  rest 
of  his  days  with  the  very  notion  of  these  lessons, 
Still,  the  study  of  the  Classics  survives,  a  curious 
and  elaborate  ritual,  from  which  all  sense  and 
spirit  have  departed.  One  has  only  to  recollect 
the  form  master's  lessons  in  the  Odyssey  or  the 
Bacchte,  and  then  to  view  modern  Free-masons 
celebrating  the  Mystic  Death  and  Resurrection  of 
Hiram  Abiff;  the  analogy  is  complete,  for  neither 
the  master  nor  the  Masons  have  the  remotest  no- 
tion of  what  they  are  doing.  Both  persevere  in 
strange  and  mysterious  actions  from  inveterate 
conservatism. 

Meyrick  was  a  lover  of  antiquity  and  a  special 
lover  of  survivals,  but  he  could  never  see  that 
the  round  of  Greek  syntax,  and  Latin  prose,  of 
Elegiacs  and  verbs  in  ^  with  the  mystery  of 
the  Oratio  obliqua  and  the  Optative,  was  one  of 
the  most  strange  and  picturesque  survivals  of 
modern  life.  It  is  to  be  noted,  by  the  way,  that 
the  very  meaning  of  the  word  "scholar"  has  been 
radically  changed.  Thus  a  well-known  authority 
points  out  that  "Melancholy"  Burton  had  no 
"scholarship"  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word;  he 
merely  used  his  vast  knowledge  of  ancient  and 

26 


The  Secret  Glory 

modern  literature  to  make  one  of  the  most  en- 
tertaining and  curious  books  that  the  world  pos- 
sesses. True  "scholarship,"  in  the  modern  sense, 
is  to  be  sought  for  not  in  the  Jacobean  transla- 
tors of  the  Bible,  but  in  the  Victorian  revisers. 
The  former  made  the  greatest  of  English  books 
out  of  their  Hebrew  and  Greek  originals;  but 
the  latter  understood  the  force  of  the  aorist.  It 
is  curious  to  reflect  that  "scholar"  once  meant  a 
man  of  literary  taste  and  knowledge. 

Meyrick  never  mastered  these  distinctions,  or, 
if  he  did  so  in  later  years,  he  never  confessed  to 
his  enlightment,  but  went  on  railing  at  the  meet- 
ing-house, which,  he  still  maintained,  did  pretend 
to  be  a  cathedral.  He  has  been  heard  to  wonder 
why  a  certain  Dean,  who  had  pointed  out  the 
vast  improvements  that  had  been  effected  by  the 
Revisers,  did  not  employ  a  few  young  art  students 
from  Kensington  to  correct  the  infamous  drawing 
of  the  fourteenth-century  glass  in  his  cathedral. 
He  was  incorrigible;  he  was  always  incorrigible, 
and  thus,  in  his  boyhood,  on  the  dark  November 
evening,  he  meditated  the  murder  of  his  good 
master  and  uncle — for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

His  father,  he  remembered,  had  always  spoken 
of  Gothic  architecture  as  the  most  wonderful  and 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world:  a  thing  to  be  stud- 
ied and  loved  and  reverenced.  His  father  had 

27 


The  Secret  Glory 

never  so  much  as  mentioned  rocker,  much  less  had 
he  preached  it  as  the  one  way  by  which  an  Eng- 
lish boy  must  be  saved.  Hence,  Ambrose  main- 
tained inwardly  that  his  visit  to  Selden  Abbey 
was  deserving  of  reward  rather  than  punishment, 
and  he  resented  bitterly,  the  savage  injustice  (as  he 
thought  it)  of  his  caning. 

Ill 

Yet  Mr.  Horbury  had1  been  right  in  one  matter, 
if  not  in  all.  That  evening  was  a  turning-point 
in  Meyrick's  life.  He  had  felt  the  utmost  rage 
of  the  enemy,  as  it  were,  and  he  determined  that 
he  would  be  a  funk  no  longer.  He  would  not 
degenerate  into  the  state  of  little  Phipps,  who  had 
been  bullied  and  "rockered"  and  beaten  into  such 
a  deplorable  condition  that  he  fainted  dead  away 
while  the  Headmaster  was  operating  on  him  for 
"systematic  and  deliberate  lying."  Phipps  not 
only  fainted,  but,  being  fundamentally  sensible, 
as  Dr.  Johnson  expressed  it,  showed  a  strong  dis- 
inclination to  return  to  consciousness  and  the  pre- 
cious balms  of  the  "dear  old  Head."  Chesson 
was  rather  frightened,  and  the  school  doctor,  who 
had  his  living  to  get,  said,  somewhat  dryly,  that 
he  thought  the  lad  had  better  go  home  for  a  week 
or  two. 

So  Phipps  went  home  in  a  state  which  made 
28 


The  Secret  Glory 

his  mother  cry  bitterly  and  his  father  wonder 
whether  the  Public  School  system  was  not  over- 
praised. But  the  old  family  doctor  went  about 
raging  and  swearing  at  the  "scoundrels"  who  had 
reduced  a  child  of  twelve  to  a  nervous  wreck, 
with  "neurasthenia  cerebralis"  well  on  its  way. 
But  Dr.  Walford  had  got  his  education  in  some 
trumpery  little  academy,  and  did  not  understand 
or  value  the  ethos  of  the  great  Public  Schools. 

Now,  Ambrose  Meyrick  had  marked  the  career 
of  wretched  Phipps  with  concern  and  pity.  The 
miserable  little  creature  had  been  brought  by  care- 
ful handling  from  masters  and  boys  to  such  a 
pitdh  of  neurotic  perfection  that  it  was  only 
necessary  to  tap  him  smartly  on  the  back  or  on  the 
arm,  and  he  would  instantly  burst  into  tears. 
Whenever  anyone  asked  him  the  simplest  question 
he  suspected  a  cruel  trap  of  some  sort,  and  lied 
and  equivocated  and  shuffled  with  a  pitiable  lacl^ 
of  skill.  Though  he  was  pitched  by  the  heels 
into  mucker  about  three  times  a  week,  that  he 
might  acquire  the  useful  art  of  natation,  he  still 
seemed  to  grow  dirtier  and  dirtier.  His  school 
books  were  toi;n  to  bits,  his  exercises  made  into 
darts;  he  had  impositions  for  losing  books  and 
canings  for  not  doing  his  work,  and  he  lied  and 
cried  all  the  more. 

Meyrick  had  never  got  to  this  depth.  He  was 
a  sturdy  boy,  and  Phipps  had  always  been  a  weakly 

29 


The  Secret  Glory 

little  animal;  but,  as  he  walked  from  the  study 
to  the  schoolroom  after  his  thrashing,  he  felt  that 
he  had  been  in  some  danger  of  descending  on  that 
sad  way.  He  finally  resolved  that  he  would  never 
tread  it,  and  so  he  walked  past  the  baize-lined 
doors  into  the  room  where  the  other  boys  were  at 
work  on  prep,  with  an  air  of  unconcern  which  was 
not  in  the  least  assumed. 

Mr.  Hobury  was  a  man  of  considerable  private 
means  and  did  not  care  to  be  bothered  with  the 
troubles  and  responsibilities  of  a  big  House.  But 
there  was  room  and  to  spare  in  the  Old  Grange, 
so  he  took  three  boys  besides  h\s  nephew.  These 
three  were  waiting  with  a  grin  of  anticipation, 
since  the  nature  of  Meyrick's  interview  with  "old 
Horbury"  was  not  dubious.  But  Ambrose  strolled 
in  with  a  "Hallo,  you  fellows !"  and  sat  down 
in  his  place  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  This 
was  intolerable. 

"I  say,  Meyrick,"  began  Pelly,  a  beefy  boy  with 
a  red  face,  "you  have  been  blubbing!  Feel  like 
writing  home  about  it?  Oh!  I  forgot.  This 
is  your  home,  isn't  it?  How  many  cuts?  I 
didn't  hear  you  howl." 

The  boy  took  no  notice.  He  was  getting  out  his 
books  as  if  no  one  had  spoken. 

"Can't  you  answer?"  went  on  the  beefy  one. 
"How  many  cuts,  you  young  sneak?" 

"Go  to  hell!" 

30 


The  Secret  Glory 

The  whole  three  stared  aghast  for  a  moment; 
they  thought  Meyrick  must  have  gone  mad.  Only 
one,  Bates  the  observant,  began  to  chuckle  quietly 
to  himself,  for  he  did  not  like  Pelly.  He  who 
was  always  beefy  became  beefier;  his  eyes  bulged 
out  with  fury. 

"I'll  give  it  you,"  he  said  and  made  for  Am- 
brose, who  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the 
Latin  dictionary.  Ambrose  did  not  wait  for  the 
assault;  he  rose  also  and  met  Pelly  half-way  with 
a  furious  blow,  well  planted  on  the  nose.  Pelly 
took  a  back  somersault  and  fell  with  a  crash  to 
the  floor,  where  he  lay  for  a  moment  half  stunned. 
He  rose  staggering  and  looked  about  him  with  a> 
pathetic,  bewildered  air;  for,  indeed,  a  great  part 
of  his  little  world  had  crumbled  about  his  ears. 
He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  wondering 
what  it  meant,  whether  it  was  true  indeed  that; 
Meyrick  was  no  longer  of  any  use  for  a  little 
quiet  fun.  A  horrible  and  incredible  trans- 
mutation had,  apparently,  been  effected  in  the 
funk  of  old.  Pelly  gazed  wildly  about  him  as  he 
tried  to  staunch  the  blood  that  poured  over  his 
mouth. 

"Foul  blow!"  ventured  Rawson,  a  lean  lad  who 
liked  to  twist  the  arms  of  very  little  boys  till  they 
shrieked  for  mercy.  The  full  inwardness  of  the 
incident  had  not  pentrated  to  his  brain;  he  saw 
without  believing,  in  the  manner  of  the  materialist 

31 


The  Secret  Glory 

who  denies  the  marvellous  even  when  it  is  be- 
fore his  eyes. 

"Foul  blow,  young  Meyrick!" 

The  quiet  student  had  gone  back  to  his  place 
and  was  again  handling  his  dictionary.  It  was  a 
hard,  compact  volume,  rebound  in  strong  boards, 
and  the  edge  of  these  boards  caught  the  unfortu- 
nate Rawson  full  across  the  eyes  with  extraordi- 
nary force.  He  put  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
blubbered  quietly  and  dismally,  rocking  to  and 
fro  in  his  seat,  hardly  hearing  the  fluent  stream 
of  curses  with  which  the  quiet  student  inquired 
whether  the  blow  he  had  just  had  was  good  enough 
for  him. 

Meyrick  picked  up  his  dictionary  with  a  volley 
of  remarks  which  would  have  done  credit  to  an 
old-fashioned  stage-manager  at  the  last  dress  re- 
hearsal before  production. 

"Hark  at  him,"  said  Pelly  feebly,  almost  rev- 
erently. "Hark  at  him."  But  poor  Rawson, 
rocking  to  and  fro,  his  head  between  his  hands, 
went  on  blubbering  softly  and  spoke  no  word. 

Meyrick  had  never  been  an  unobservant  lad; 
he  had  simply  made  a  discovery  that  evening  that 
in  Rome  certain  Roman  customs  must  be  adopted. 
The  wise  Bates  went  on  doing  his  copy  of  Latin 
verse,  chuckling  gently  to  himself.  Bates  was  a 
cynic.  He  despised  all  the  customs  and  manners 
of  the  place  most  heartily  and  took  the  most  curi- 

32 


The  Secret  Glory 

ous  care  to  observe  them.  He  might  have  been 
the  inventor  and  patentee  of  rocker,  if  one  judged 
him  by  the  fervour  with  which  he  played  it.  He 
entered  his  name  for  every  possible  event  at  the 
sports,  and  jumped  the  jumps  and  threw  the' 
hammer  and  ran  the  races  as  if  his  life  depended 
on  it.  Once  Mr.  Horbury  had  accidentally  over- 
head Bates  saying  something  about  "the  honour 
of  the  House"  which  went  to  his  heart.  As  for 
cricket,  Bates  played  as  if  his  sole  ambition  was, 
to  become  a  first-class  professional.  And  he 
chuckled  as  he  did  his  Latin  verses,  which  he 
wrote  (to  the  awe  of  other  boys)  "as  if  he  were 
writing  a  letter" — that  is,  without  making  a  rough 
copy.  For  Bates  had  got  the  "hang"  of  the 
whole  system  from  rocker  to  Latin  verse,  and 
his  copies  were  much  admired.  He  grinned  that 
evening,  partly  at  the  transmutation  of  Meyrick 
and  partly  at  the  line  he  was  jotting  down: 

"Mira  loquor,  ccelo  resonans  vox  funditur  alto" 

In  after  life  he  jotted  down  a  couple  of  novels 
which  sold,  as  the  journalists  said,  "like  hot 
cakes."  Meyrick  went  to  see  him  soon  after  the 
first  novel  had  gone  into  its  thirtieth  thousand, 
and  Bates  was  reading  "appreciations"  and  fin- 
gering a  cheque  and  chuckling. 

"Mira  loquor,  populo,  resonans,  cheque  fundi- 
tur alto,"  he  said.  "I  know  what  schoolmasters 
and  boys  and  the  public  want,  and  I  take  care 

33 


The  Secret  Glory 

they  get  it — sale  espece  de  sacres  cochons  de  N.  de 

D.r 

The  rest  of  prep,  went  off  quite  quietly.  Pelly 
was  slowly  recovering  from  the  shock  that  he  had 
received  and  began  to  meditate  revenge.  Mey- 
rick  had  got  him  unawares,  he  reflected.  It  was 
merely  an  accident,  and  he  resolved  to  challenge 
Meyrick  to  fight  and  give  him  back  the  worst  lick- 
ing he  had  ever  had  in  his  life.  He  was  beefy, 
but  a  bold  fellow.  Rawson,  who  was  really  a 
cruel  coward  and  a  sneak,  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  wanted  no  more,  and  from  time  to  time 
cast  meek  and  propitiatory  glances  in  Meyrick's 
direction. 

At  half-past  nine  they  all  went  into  their  dining- 
room  for  bread  and  cheese  and  beer.  At  a  quar- 
ter to  ten  Mr.  Horbury  appeared  in  cap  and  gown 
and  read  a  chapter  from  St.  Paul's  Epistle  to  the 
Romans,  with  one  or  two  singularly  maundering 
and  unhappy  prayers.  He  stopped  the  boys  as 
they  were  going  up  to  their  rooms. 

"What's  this,  Pelly?"  he  said.  "Your  nose  is 
all  swollen.  It's  been  bleeding,  too,  I  see.  What 
have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?  And  you, 
Rawson,  how  do  you  account  for  your  eyes  be- 
ing black?  What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?" 

"Please,  Sir,  there  was  a  very  stiff  bully  down 
at  rocker  this  afternoon,  and  Rawson  and  I  got 
tokered  badly." 

34 


The  Secret  Glory 

"Were  you  in  the  bully,  Bates?" 

"No,  Sir;  I've  been  outside  since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  term.  But  all  the  fellows  were 
playing  up  tremendously,  and  I  saw  Rawson 
and  Pelly  had  been  touched  when  we  were  chang- 
ing." 

"Ah !  I  see.  I'm  very  glad  to  find  the  House 
plays  up  so  well.  As  for  you,  Bates,  I  hear  you're 
the  best  outside  for  your  age  that  we've  ever  had. 
Good  night." 

The  three  said  "Thank  you,  Sir,"  as  if  their 
dearest  wish  had  been  gratified,  and  the  master 
could  have  sworn  that  Bates  flushed  with  pleasure 
at  his  word  of  praise.  But  the  fact  was  that 
Bates  had  "suggested"  the  flush  by  a  cunning  ar- 
rangement of  his  features. 

The  boys  vanished  and  Mr.  Horbury  returned 
to  his  desk.  He  was  editing  a  selection  called 
"English  Literature  for  Lower  Forms."  He 
began  to  read  from  the  slips  that  he  had  pre- 
pared: 

"So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse " 

He  stopped  and  set  a  figure  by  the  last  word,  and 
then,  on  a  blank  slip,  with  a  corresponding  letter, 
he  repeated  the  figure  and  wrote  the  note: 

35 


The  Secret  Glory 

Lyonnesse=the  Sicilly  Isles. 

Then  he  took  a  third  slip  and  wrote  the  ques- 
tion : 

Give  the  ancient  name  of  the  Sicilly  Isles. 

These  serious  labours  employed  him  till  twelve 
o'clock.  He  put  the  materials  of  his  book  away 
as  the  clock  struck,  and  solemnly  mixed  himself 
his  nightly  glass  of  whisky  and  soda — in  the  day- 
time he  never  touched  spirits — and  bit  the  one 
cigar  which  he  smoked  in  the  twenty-four  hours. 
The  stings  of  the  Head's  sherry  and  of  his  con- 
versation no  longer  burned  within  him;  time  and 
work  and  the  bite  of  the  cane  in  Meyrick's  flesh 
had  soothed  his  soul,  and  he  set  himself  to  dream, 
leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair,  watching  the  cheer- 
ful fire. 

He  was  thinking  of  what  he  would  do  when  he 
succeeded  to  the  Headmastership.  Already  there 
were  rumours  that  Chesson  had  refused  the  Bis- 
hopric of  St.  Dubric's  in  order  that  he  might  be 
free  to  accept  Dorchester,  which,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  must  soon  be  vacant.  Horbury  had  no 
doubt  that  the  Headmastership  would  be  his;  he 
had  influential  friends  who  assured  him  that  the 
trustees  would  not  hestitate  for  an  instant.  Then 
he  would  show  the  world  what  an  English  Public 
School  could  be  made.  In  five  years,  he  calcu- 

36 


The  Secret  Glory 

lated,  he  would  double  the  numbers.  He  saw  the 
coming  importance  of  the  modern  side,  and  es- 
pecially of  science.  Personally,  he  detested 
"stinks,"  but  he  knew  what  an  effect  he  would 
produce  with  a  great  laboratory  fitted  with  the 
very  best  appliances  and  directed  by  a  highly 
qualified  master.  Then,  again,  an  elaborate 
gymnasium  must  be  built;  there  must  be  an  engi- 
neer's shop,  too,  and  a  carpenter's  as  well.  And 
people  were  beginning  to  complain  that  a  Public 
School  Education  was  of  no  use  in  the  City. 
There  must  be  a  business  master,  an  expert  from 
the  Stock  Exchange  who  would  see  that  this  re- 
proach was  removed.  Then  he  considered  that  a 
large  number  of  the  boys  belonged  to  the  land- 
owning class.  Why  should  a  country  gentleman 
be  at  the  mercy  of  his  agent,  forced  for  lack  of 
technical  knowledge  to  accept  statements  which 
he  could  not  check?  It  was  clear  that  the  man- 
agement of  land  and  great  estates  must  have 
its  part  in  the  scheme;  and,  again,  the  best- 
known  of  the  Crammers  must  be  bought  on  his 
own  terms,  so  that  the  boys  who  wished  to  get  into 
the  Army  or  the  Civil  Service  would  be  practically 
compelled  to  come  to  Lupton.  Already  he  saw 
paragraphs  in  the  Guardian  and  The  Times — in 
all  the  papers — paragraphs  which  mentioned  the 
fact  that  ninety-five  per  cent  of  the  successful  can- 
didates for  the  Indian  Civil  Service  had  received 

37 


The  Secret  Glory 

their  education  at  the  foundation  of  "stout  old 
Martin  Rolle."  Meanwhile,  in  all  this  flood  of 
novelty,  the  old  traditions  should  be  maintained 
with  more  vigour  than  ever.  The  classics  should 
be  taught  as  they  never  had  been  taught.  Every 
one  of  the  masters  on  this  side  should  be  in  the 
highest  honours  and,  if  possible,  he  would  get 
famous  men  for  the  work — they  should  not  merely 
be  good,  but  also  notorious  scholars.  Gee,  the 
famous  explorer  in  Crete,  who  had  made  an  enor- 
mous mark  in  regions  widely  removed  from 
the  scholastic  world  by  his  wonderful  book,  Dada* 
lus;  or,  The  Secret  of  the  Labyrinth,  must  come 
to  Lupton  at  any  price;  and  Maynard,  who  had 
discovered  some  most  important  Greek  manu- 
scripts in  Egypt,  he  must  have  a  form,  too.  Then 
there  was  Rendell,  who  had  done  so  well  with  his 
Thucydides,  and  Davies,  author  of  The  Olive  of 
Athene,  a  daring  but  most  brilliant  book  which 
promised  to  upset  the  whole  established  theory 
of  mythology — he  would  have  such  a  staff  as  no 
school  had  ever  dreamed  of.  "We  shall  have 
no  difficulty  about  paying  them,"  drought  Hor- 
bury;  "our  numbers  will  go  up  by  leaps  and 
bounds,  and  the  fees  shall  be  five  hundred 
pounds  a  year — and  such  terms  will  do  us  more 
good  than  anything." 

He  went  into  minute  detail.     He  must  take  ex- 
pert advice  as  to  the  advisability  of  the  school 

38 


The  Secret  Glory 

farming  on  its  own  account,  and  so  supplying  the 
boys  with  meat,  milk,  bread,  butter  and  vege- 
tables at  first  cost.  He  believed  it  could  be  done; 
he  would  get  a  Scotch  farmer  from  the  Lowlands 
and  make  him  superintendent  at  a  handsome  sal- 
ary and  with  a  share  in  the  profits.  There  would 
be  the  splendid  advertisement  of  "the  whole  diet- 
ary of  the  school  supplied  from  the  School  Farms, 
under  the  supervision  of  Mr.  David  Anderson, 
formerly  of  Haddanneuk,  the  largest  tenancy  in 
the  Duke  of  Ayr's  estates."  The  food  would  be 
better  and  cheaper,  too;  but  there  would  be  no 
luxury.  The  "Spartan"  card  was  always  worth 
playing;  one  must  strike  the  note  of  plain  living 
in  a  luxurious  age;  there  must  be  no  losing  of 
the  old  Public  School  severity.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  boy's  hands  should  be  free  to  go  into 
their  own  pockets;  there  should  be  no  restraint 
here.  If  a  boy  chose  to  bring  in  Dindonneau  aux 
trufes  or  Pieds  de  mouton  a  la  Ste  Menehoitld  to 
help  out  his  tea,  that  was  his  look-out.  Why 
should  not  the  school  grant  a  concession  to  some 
big  London  firm,  who  would  pay  handsomely  for 
the  privilege  of  supplying  the  hungry  lads  with 
every  kind  of  expensive  dainty?  The  sum  could 
be  justly  made  a  large  one,  as  any  competing  shop 
could  be  promptly  put  out  of  bounds  with  reason 
or  without  it.  One  one  side,  confiserie;  at  the 
other  counter,  charcuterie;  enormous  prices  could 

39 


The  Secret  Glory 

be  charged  to  the  wealthy  boys  of  whom  the 
school  would  be  composed.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  distinguished  visitor — judge,  bishop, 
peer  or  what  not — would  lunch  at  the  Headmas- 
ter's house  and  eat  the  boys'  dinner  and  go  away 
saying  it  was  quite  the  plainest  and  very  many 
times  the  best  meal  he  had  ever  tasted.  There 
would  be  well-hung  saddle  of  mutton,  roasted  and 
not  baked;  floury  potatoes  and  cauliflower;  apple 
pudding  with  real  English  cheese,  with  an  excel- 
lent glass  of  the  school  beer,  an  honest  and  de- 
licious beverage  made  of  malt  and  hops  in  the 
well-found  school  brewery.  Horbury  knew 
enough  of  modern  eating  and  drinking  to  under- 
stand that  such  a  meal  would  be  a  choice  rarity  to 
nine  rich  people  out  of  ten;  and  yet  it  was  "Spar- 
tan," utterly  devoid  of  luxury  and  ostentation. 
Again,  he  passed  from  detail  and  minutiae  into 
great  Napoleonic  regions.  A  thousand  boys  at 
£500  a  year;  that  would  be  an  income  for  the 
school  of  five  hundred  thousand  pounds !  The 
profits  would  be  gigantic,  immense.  After  pay- 
ing large,  even  extravagant,  prices  to  the  staff,  af- 
ter all  building  expenses  had  been  deducted,  he 
hardly  dared  to  think  how  vast  a  sum  would  ac- 
crue year  by  year  to  the  Trustees.  The  vision 
began  to  assume  such  magnificence  that  it  became 
oppressive;  it  put  on  the  splendours  and  delights 

40 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  the  hashish  dream,  which  are  too  great  and 
too  piercing  for  mortal  hearts  to  bear.  And  yet 
it  was  no  mirage ;  there  was  not  a  step  that  could 
not  be  demonstrated,  shown  to  be  based  on  hard,' 
mater-of-fact  business  considerations.  He  tried 
to  keep  back  his  growing  excitement,  to  argue 
with  himself  that  he  was  dealing  in  visions,  but 
the  facts  were  too  obstinate.  He  saw  that  it 
would  be  his  part  to  work  the  same  miracle  in 
the  scholastic  world1  as  the  great  American  store- 
keepers had  operated  in  the  world  of  retail  trade. 
The  principle  was  precisely  the  same :  instead  of 
a  hundred  small  shops  making  comparatively  mod- 
est and  humdrum  profits  you  had  the  vast  empor- 
ium doing  business  on  the  gigantic  scale  with 
vastly  diminished  expenses  and  vastly  increased 
rewards. 

Here  again  was  a  hint.  He  had  thought  of 
America,  and  he  knew  that  here  was  an  inex- 
haustible gold  mine,  that  no  other  scholastic  pros- 
pector had  even  dreamed  of.  The  rich  Ameri- 
can was  notoriously  hungry  for  everything  that 
was  English,  from  frock-coats  to  pedigrees.  He 
had  never  thought  of  sending  his  son  to  an  Eng- 
lish Public  School  because  he  considered  the  sys- 
tem hopelessly  behind  the  times.  But  the  new 
translated  Lupton  would  be  to  other  Public 
Schools  as  a  New  York  hotel  of  the  latest  fashion 

41 


The  Secret  Glory 

is  to  a  village  beer-shop.  And  yet  the  young 
millionaire  would  grow  up  in  the  company  of  the 
sons  of  the  English  gentlemen,  imbibing  the  unique 
culture  of  English  life,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
enjoyed  all  the  advantages  of  modern  ideas,  mod- 
ern science  and  modern  business  training.  Land 
was  still  comparatively  dheap  at  Lupton;  the 
school  must  buy  it  quietly,  indirectly,  by  degrees, 
and  then  pile  after  pile  of  vast  buildings  rose 
before  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  sons  of  the  rich 
drawn  from  all  the  ends  of  the  world  to  the  Great 
School,  there  to  learn  the  secret  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxons. 

Chesson  was  mistaken  in  that  idea  of  his,  which 
he  thought  daring  and  original,  of  establishing  a 
distinct  Jewish  House  where  the  food  should  be 
"Kosher."  The  rich  Jew  who  desired  to  send  his* 
son  to  an  English  Public  School  was,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  anxious  to  do  so  precisely  because  he 
wanted  to  sink  his  son's  connection  with  Jewry 
in  oblivion.  He  had  heard  Chesson  talk  of  "our 
Christian  duty  to  the  seed  of  Israel"  in  this  con- 
nection. The  man  was  clearly  a  fool.  No,  the 
more  Jews  the  better,  but  no  Jewish  House.  And 
no  Puseyism  either:  broad,  earnest  religious 
teaching,  with  a  leaning  to  moderate  Anglicanism, 
should  be  the  faith  of  Lupton.  As  to  this  Ches- 
son was,  certainly,  sound  enough.  He  had  al- 
ways made  a  firm  stand  against  ecclesiasticism  in 

42 


The  Secret  Glory 

any  form.  iHorbury  knew  the  average  English 
parent  of  the  wealthier  classes  thoroughly;  he 
knew  that,  though  he  generally  called  himself  a 
Churchman,  he  was  quite  content  to  have  his  sons 
prepared  for  confirmation  by  a  confessed  Agnos- 
tic. Certainly  this  liberty  must  not  be  narrowed 
when  Lupton  became  cosmopolitan.  "We  will  re- 
tain all  the  dignified  associations  which  belong 
to  the  Established  Church,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"and  at  the  same  time  we  shall  be  utterly  free  from 
the  taint  of  over-emphasising  dogmatic  teaching." 
He  had  a  sudden  brilliant  idea.  Everybody  in 
Church  circles  was  saying  that  the  English  bish- 
ops were  terribly  overworked,  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  most  strenuous  men  with  the  best 
intentions  to  supervise  effectually  the  huge  dioce- 
ses that  had  descended  from  the  sparsely  popu- 
lated England  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Everywhere 
there  was  a  demand  for  suffragans  and  more  suf- 
fragans. In  the  last  week's  Guardian  there  were 
three  letters  on  the  subject,  one  from  a  clergyman 
in  their  own  diocese.  The  Bishop  had  been  at- 
tacked by  some  rabid  ritualistic  person,  who  had 
pointed  out  that  nine  out  of  every  ten  parishes  had 
not  so  much  as  seen  the  colour  of  his  hood  ever 
since  his  appointment  ten  years  before.  The 
Archdeacon  of  Melby  had  replied  in  a  capital 
letter,  scathing  and  yet  humorous.  Horbury 
turned  to  the  paper  on  the  table  beside  his  chair 

43 


The  Secret  Glory 

and  looked  up  the  letter.  "In  the  first  place," 
wrote  the  Archdeacon,  "your  correspondent  does 
not  seem  to  have  realised  that  the  ethoes  of  the 
Diocese  of  Melby  is  not  identical  with  that  of 
sacerdotalism.  The  sturdy  folk  of  the  Midlands 
have  not  yet,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  forgotten  the 
lessons  of  our  great  Reformation.  They  have 
no  wish  to  see  a  revival  of  the  purely  mechanical 
religion  of  the  Middle  Ages — of  the  system 
of  a  sacrificing  priesthood  and  of  sacraments  effi- 
cacious ex  opere  operate.  Hence  they  do  not  re- 
gard the  episcopate  quite  in  the  same  light  as 
your  correspondent  'Senex,'  who,  it  seems  to  me, 
looks  upon  a  bishop  as  a  sort  of  Christianised 
'medicine-man,'  endowed  with  certain  mysterious 
thaumaturgic  powers  which  have  descended  to 
him  by  an  (imaginary)  spiritual  succession. 
This  was  not  the  view  of  Hooker,  nor,  I  venture 
to  say,  has  it  ever  been  the  view  of  the  really 
representative  divines  of  the  Established  Church 
of  England. 

"Still,"  the  Archdeacon  went  on,  "it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  present  diocese  of  Melby  is 
unwieldly  and,  it  may  be  fairly  said,  unwork- 
able." 

Then  there  followed  the  humorous  anecdote 
of  Sir  Boyle  Roche  and  the  Bird,  and  finally  the 
Archdeacon  emitted  the  prayer  that  God  in  His 
own  good  time  would  put  it  into  the  hearts  of  our 

44 


The  Secret  Glory 

rulers  in  Church  and  State  to  give  their  good 
Bishop  an  episcopal  curate. 

Horbury  got  up  from  his  chair  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  study;  his  excitement  was  so  great 
that  he  could  keep  quiet  no  longer.  His  cigar 
had  gone  out  long  ago,  and  he  had  barely  sipped 
the  whisky  and  soda.  His  eyes  glittered  with 
excitement.  Circumstances  seemed  positively  to 
be  playing  into  his  hands;  the  dice  of  the  world 
were  being  loaded  in  his  favour.  He  was  like 
Bel  Ami  at  his  wedding.  He  almost  began  to  be- 
lieve in  Providence. 

For  he  was  sure  it  could  be  managed.  Here 
was  a  general  feeling  that  no  one  man  could  do 
the  work  of  the  diocese.  There  must  be  a  suf* 
fragan,  and  Lupton  must  give  the  new  Bishop 
his  title.  No  other  town  was  possible.  Dun- 
ham had  certainly  been  a  see  in  the  eighth  century, 
but  it  was  now  little  more  than  a  village  and  a 
village  served  by  a  miserable  little  branch  line; 
whereas  Lupton  was  on  the  great  main  track  of 
the  Midland  system,  with  easy  connections  to 
every  part  of  the  country.  The  Archdeacon,  who 
was  also  a  peer,  would  undoubtedly  become  the 
first  Bishop  of  Lupton,  and  he  should  be  the 
titular  chaplain  of  the  Great  School !  "Chaplain ! 
The  Right  Reverend  Lord  Selwyn,  Lord  Bishop 
of  Lupton."  Horbury  gasped;  it  was  too 
magnificent,  too  splendid.  He  knew  Lord  Sel- 

45 


The  Secret  Glory 

wyn  quite  well  and  had  no  doubt  as  to  his  accept- 
ance. He  was  a  poor  man,  and  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  whatever  in  establishing  a  modus. 
The  Archdeacon  was  just  the  man  for  the  place. 
He  was  no  pedantic  theologian,  but  a  broad,  lib- 
eral-minded man  of  the  wolrld.  Horbury  re- 
membered, almost  with  ecstasy,  that  he  had  lec- 
tured all  over  the  United  States  with  immense 
success.  The  American  Press  had  been  enthus- 
iastic, and  the  First  Congregational  Church  of 
Chicago  had  implored  Selwyn  to  accept  its  call, 
preach  what  he  liked  and  pocket  an  honorarium 
of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year.  And,  on 
the  other  hand,  what  could  the  most  orthodox 
desire  safer  than  a  chaplain  who  was  not  only 
a  bishop,  but  a  peer  of  the  realm?  Wonderful! 
Here  were  the  three  birds — Liberalism,  Ortho- 
doxy and  Reverence  for  the  House  of  Lords — 
caught  safe  and  secure  in  this  one  net. 

The  games?  They  should  be  maintained  in 
all  their  glory,  rather  on  an  infinitely  more  splen- 
did scale.  Cricket  and  sticker  (the  Lupton 
hockey),  rackets  and  fives,  should  be  all  encour- 
aged; and  more,  Lupton  should  be  the  only  school 
to  possess  a  tennis  court.  The  noble  jeu  de 
paume,  the  game  of  kings,  the  most  aristocratic 
of  all  sports,  should  have  a  worthy  home  at 
Lupton.  They  would  train  champions;  they 
would  have  both  French  and  English  markers 

46 


The  Secret  Glory 

skilled  in  the  latest  developments  of  the  chemin 
de  fer  service.  "Better  than  half  a  yard,  I 
think,"  said  Horbury  to  himself;  "they  will 
have  to  do  their  best  to  beat  that." 

But  he  placed  most  reliance  on  rocker.  This 
was  the  Lupton  football,  a  variant  as  distinctive 
in  its  way  as  the  Eton  Wall  Game.  People  have 
thought  that  the  name  is  a  sort  of  portmanteau 
word,  a  combination  of  Rugger  and  Soccer;  but 
in  reality  the  title  was  derived  from  the  field 
where  the  game  used  to  be  played  in  old  days  by 
the  townsfolk.  As  in  many  other  places,  foot- 
ball at  Lupton  had  been  originally  an  excuse  for  a 
faction-fight  between  two  parishes  in  the  town — 
St.  Michael's  and  St.  Paul's-in-the-Fields.  Every 
year,  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  the  townsfolk,  young 
and  old,  had  proceeded  to  the  Town  Field  and 
had  fought  out  their  differences  with  considerable 
violence.  The  field  was  broken  land:  a  deep, 
sluggish  stream  crossed  one  angle  of  it,  and  in 
the  middle  there  were  quarries  and  jagged  lime- 
stone rocks.  Hence  football  was  called  in  the 
town  "playing  rocks,"  for,  indeed,  it  was  con- 
sidered an  excellent  point  of  play  to  hurl  a  man 
over  the  edge  of  the  quarry  on  to  the  rocks  be- 
neath, and  so  late  as  1830  a  certain  Jonas  Simp- 
son of  St.  Michael's  had  had  his  spine  broken  in 
this  way.  However,  as  a  boy  from  St.  Paul's 
was  drowned  in  the  Wand  the  same  day,  the 

47 


The  Secret  Glory 

game  was  always  reckoned  a  draw.  It  was  from 
the  pecularities  of  this  old  English  sport  that  the 
school  had  constructed  its  game.  The  Town 
Field  had,  of  course,  long  been  stolen  from  the 
townsfolk  and  built  over;  but  the  boys  had, 
curiously  enough,  perpetuated  the  tradition  of  its 
peculiarities  in  a  kind  of  football  ritual.  For, 
besides  the  two  goals,  one  part  of  the  field 
was  marked  by  a  line  of  low  white  posts:  these 
indicated  the  course  of  a  non-existent  Wand 
brook,  and  in  the  line  of  these  posts  in  was  law- 
ful to  catch  an  opponent  by  the  throat  and  choke 
him  till  he  turned  black  in  the  face — the  best  sub- 
stitute for  drowning  that  the  revisers  of  the 
game  could  imagine.  Again :  about  the  centre  of 
the  field  two  taller  posts  indicated  the  position 
of  the  quarries,  and  between  these  you  might  be 
hit  or  kicked  full  in  the  stomach  without  the 
smallest  ground  of  complaint:  the  stroke  being 
a  milder  version  of  the  old  fall  on  the  rocks. 
There  were  many  other  like  amenities  in  rocker; 
and  Horbury  maintained  it  was  by  far  the  man- 
liest variant  of  the  game.  For  this  pleasing 
sport  he  now  designed  a  world-wide  fame. 
Rocker  should  be  played  wherever  the  English 
flag  floated:  east  and  west,  north  and  south;  from 
Hong  Kong  to  British  Columbia;  in  Canada  and 
New  Zealand  there  should  be  the  Temenoi  of  this 
great  rite;  and  the  traveller  seeing  the  mystic 


The  Secret  Glory 

enclosure — the  two  goals,  the  line  of  little  posts 
marking  "brooks"  and  the  two  poles  indicating 
"quarries" — should  know  English  soil  as  surely 
as  by  the  Union  Jack.  The  technical  terms  of 
rocker  should  become  a  part  of  the  great  Anglo- 
Saxon  inheritance;  the  whole  world  should  hear 
of  "bully-downs"  and  "tokering,"  of  "outsides" 
and  "rammers."  It  would  require  working,  but 
it  was  to  be  done:  articles  in  the  magazines  and 
in  the  Press;  perhaps  a  story  of  school  life,  a 
new  Tom  Brown  must  be  written.  The  Mid- 
lands and  the  North  must  be  shown  that  there 
was  money  in  it,  and  the  rest  would  be  easy. 

One  thing  troubled  Horbury.  His  mind  was 
full  of  the  new  and  splendid  buildings  that  were 
to  be  erected,  but  he  was  aware  that  antiquity 
still  counted  for  something,  and  unfortunately 
Lupton  could  show  very  little  that  was  really 
antique.  Forty  years  before,  Stanley,  the  first 
reforming  Headmaster,  had  pulled  down  the  old 
High  School.  There  were  prints  of  it:  it  was  a 
half-timbered,  fifteenth-century  building,  with  a 
wavering  roof-line  and  an  overhanging  upper 
story;  there  were  dim,  leaded  windows  and  a 
grey  arched  porch — an  ugly  old  barn,  Stanley 
called  it.  Scott  was  called  in  and  built  the 
present  High  School,  a  splendid  hall  in  red  brick: 
French  thirteenth-century,  with  Venetian  detail; 
it  was  much  admired.  But  Horbury  was  sorry 

49      % 


The  Secret  Glory 

that  the  old  school  had  been  destroyed;  he  saw 
for  the  first  time  that  it  might  have  been  made  a 
valuable  attraction.  Then  again,  Dowsing,  who 
succeeded  Stanley,  had  knocked  the  cloisters  all 
to  bits ;  there  was  only  one  side  of  the  quadrangle 
left,  and  this  had  been  boarded  up  and  used  as  a 
gardeners'  shed.  Horbury  did  not  know  what  to 
say  of  the  destruction  of  the  Cross  that  used  to 
stand  in  the  centre  of  the  quad.  No  doubt 
Dowsing  was  right  in  thinking  it  superstitious; 
still,  it  might  have  been  left  as  a  curiosity  and 
shown  to  visitors,  just  as  the  instruments  of  by- 
gone cruelty — the  rack  and  the  Iron  Maid — are 
preserved  and  exhibited  to  wondering  sightseers. 
There  was  no  real  danger  of  any  superstitious 
adoration  of  the  Cross;  it  was,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  as  harmless  as  the  axe  and  block  at  the 
Tower  of  London;  Dowsing  had  ruined  what 
might  have  been  an  important  asset  in  the  ex- 
ploitation of  the  school. 

Still,  perhaps  the  loss  was  not  altogether  irre- 
parable. High  School  was  gone  and  could  not  be 
recovered;  but  the  cloisters  might  be  restored  and 
the  Cross,  too.  Horbury  knew  that  the  monu- 
ment in  front  of  Charing  Cross  Railway  Station 
was  considered  by  many  to  be  a  genuine  antique : 
why  not  get  a  good  man  to  build  them  a  Cross? 
Not  like  the  old  one,  of  course;  that  "Fair  Roode 
with  our  Deare  Ladie  Saint  Marie  and  Saint 

50 


The  Secret  Glory 

John,"  and,  below,  the  stories  of  the  blissful 
Saints  and  Angels — that  would  never  do.  But  a 
vague,  Gothic  erection,  with  plenty  of  kings  and 
queens,  imaginary  benfactors  of  the  school,  and  a 
small  cast-iron  cross  at  the  top:  that  could  give 
no  offence  to  anybody,  and  might  pass  with  nine 
people  out  of  ten  as  a  genuine  remnant  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  could  be  made  of  soft  stone 
and  allowed  to  weather  for  a  few  years;  then  a 
coat  of  invisible  anti-corrosive  fluid  would  pre- 
serve carvings  and  imagery  that  would  already  ap- 
pear venerable  in  decay.  There  was  no  need  to 
make  any  precise  statements :  parents  and  the 
public  might  be  allowed  to  draw  their  own  con- 
clusions. 

Horbury  was  neglecting  nothing.  He  was 
building  up  a  great  scheme  in  his  mind,  and  to 
him  it  seemed  that  every  detail  was  worth  attend- 
ing to,  while  at  the  same  time  he  did  not  lose 
sight  of  the  whole  effect.  He  believed  in  finish: 
there  must  be  no  rough  edges.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  a  school  legend  must  be  invented.  The  real 
history  was  not  quite  what  he  wanted,  though  it 
might  work  in  with  a  more  decorative  account  of 
Lupton's  origins.  One  might  use  the  Textus  Re- 
ceptus  of  Martin  Rolle's  Foundation — the  be- 
quest of  land  c.  1430  to  build  and  maintain  a 
school  where  a  hundred  boys  should  be  taught 
grammar,  and  ten  poor  scholars  and  six  priests 

51 


The  Secret  Glory 

should  pray  for  the  Founder's  soul.  This  was 
well  enough,  but  one  might  hint  that  Martin  Rollq 
really  refounded  and  vfe-endowed  a  school  of 
Saxon  origin,  probably  established  by  King  Al- 
fred himself  in  Luppa's  Tun.  Then,  again,  who 
could  show  that  Shakespeare  had  not  visited  Lup- 
ton?  His  famous  schoolboy,  "creeping  like  snail 
unwillingly  to  school,"  might  very  possibly  have 
been  observed  by  the  poet  as  he  strolled  by  the 
banks  of  the  Wand.  Many  famous  men  might 
have  received  their  education  at  Lupton;  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  make  a  plausible  list  of  such. 
It  must  be  done  carefully  and  cautiously,  with 
such  phrases  as  "it  has  always  been  a  tradition 
at  Lupton  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  received  part 
of  his  education  at  the  school";  or,  again,  "an 
earlier  generation  of  Luptonians  remembered  the 
initials  'W.  S.  S.  on  A.'  cut  deeply  in  the  mantel 
of  old  High  School,  now,  unfortunately,  demol- 
ished." Antiquarians  would  laugh?  Possibly; 
but  who  cared  about  antiquarians?  For  the  aver- 
age man  "Charing"  was  derived  from  "chere  rei- 
ne,"  and  he  loved  to  have  it  so,  and  Horbury  in- 
tended to  appeal  to  the  average  man.  Though 
he  was  a  schoolmaster  he  was  no  recluse,  and  he 
had  marked  the  ways  of  the  world  from  his  quiet 
study  in  Lupton;  hence  he  understood  the  im- 
mense value  of  a  grain  of  quackery  in  all  schemes 
which  are  meant  to  appeal  to  mortals.  It  was 

52 


The  Secret  Glory 

a  deadly  mistake  to  suppose  that  anything  which 
was  all  quackery  would  be  a  success — a  perma£ 
nent  success,  at  all  events;  it  was  a  deadlier  mis- 
take still  to  suppose  that  anything  quite  devoid  of 
quackery  could  pay  handsomely.  The  average 
English  palate  would  shudder  at  the  flavour  of 
aioli,  but  it  would  be  charmed  by  the  insertion  of 
that  petit  point  d'ail  which  turned  mere  goodness 
into  triumph  and  laurelled  perfection.  And  there 
was  no  need  to  mention  the  word  "garlic"  before 
the  guests.  Lupton  was  not  going  to  be  all  gar- 
lic :  it  was  to  be  infinitely  the  best  scholastic  dish 
that  had  ever  been  served — the  ingredients  should 
be  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable.  But — King 
Alfred's  foundation  of  a  school  at  Luppa's  Tun, 
and  that  "W.  S.  S.  on  A."  cut  deeply  on  the  man- 
tel of  the  vanished  High  School — these  and  leg- 
ends like  unto  them,  these  would  be  the  last 
touch,  le  petit  point  d'ail. 

It  was  a  great  scheme,  wonderful  and  glorious; 
and  the  most  amazing  thing  about  it  was  that  it 
was  certain  to  be  realised.  There  was  not  a  flaw 
from  start  to  finish.  The  Trustees  were  certain 
to  appoint  him — he  had  that  from  a  sure  quar- 
ter— and  it  was  but  a  question  of  a  year  or  two, 
perhaps  only  of  a  month  or  two,  before  all  this 
great  and  golden  vision  should  be  converted  into 
hard  and  tangible  fact.  He  drank  off  his  glass  of 
whisky  and  soda;  it  had  become  flat  and  brackish, 

53 


The  Secret  Glory 

but  to  him  it  was  nectar,  since  it  was  flavoured 
with  ecstasy. 

He  frowned  suddenly  as  he  went  upstairs  to  his 
room.  An  unpleasant  recollection  had  intruded 
for  a  moment  on  his  amazing  fantasy;  but  he 
dismissed  the  thought  as  soon  as  it  arose.  That 
was  all  over,  there  could  be  no  possibility  of  trou- 
ble from  that  direction;  and  so,  his  mind  filled 
with  images,  he  fell  asleep  and  saw  Lupton  as  the 
centre  of  the  whole  world,  like  Jerusalem  in  the 
ancient  maps. 

A  student  of  the  deep  things  of  mysticism  has 
detected  a  curious  element  of  comedy  in  the  man- 
agement of  human  concerns;  and  there  certainly 
seems  a  touch  of  humour  in  the  fact  that  on  this 
very  night,  while  Horbury  was  building  the  splen- 
did Lupton  of  the  future,  the  palace  of  his  thought 
and  his  life  was  shattered  for  ever  into  bitter  dust 
and  nothingness.  But  so  it  was.  The  Dread 
Arrest  had  been  solemnly  preconised,  and  that 
wretched  canonry  at  Wareham  was  irrevocably 
pronounced  for  doom.  Fantastic  were  the  ele- 
ments of  forces  that  had  gone  to  the  ordering  of 
this  great  sentence:  raw  corn  spirit  in  the  guise 
of  sherry,  the  impertinence  (or  what  seemed  such) 
of  an  elderly  clergyman,  a  boiled  leg  of  mut- 
ton, a  troublesome  and  disobedient  boy,  and — 
another  person. 

54 


II 


HE  was  standing  in  a  wild,  bare  country. 
Something  about  it  seemed  vaguely  famil- 
iar: the  land  rose  and  fell  in  dull  and 
weary  undulations,  in  a  vast  circle  of  dun  plough- 
land  and  grey  meadow,  bounded  by  a  dim  horizon 
without  promise  or  hope,  dreary  as  a  prison  wall. 
The   infinite   melancholy   of   an  autumn   evening 
brooded  heavily  over  all  the  world,  and  the  sky 
was  hidden  by  livid  clouds. 

It  all  brought  back  to  him  some  far-off  memory, 
and  yet  he  knew  that  he  gazed  on  that  sad  plain 
for  the  first  time.  There  was  a  deep  and  heavy 
silence  over  all;  a  silence  unbroken  by  so  much 
as  the  fluttering  of  a  leaf.  The  trees  seemed  of 
a  strange  shape,  and  strange  were  the  stunted 
thorns  dotted  about  the  broken  field  in  which  he 
stood.  A  little  path  at  his  feet,  bordered  by  the 
thorn  bushes,  wandered  away  to  the  left  into  the 
dim  twilight;  it  had  about  it  some  indefinable 
air  of  mystery,  as  if  it  must  lead  one  down  into  a 
mystic  region  where  all  earthly  things  are  for- 
gotten and  lost  for  ever. 

55 


The  Secret  Glory 

He  sat  down  beneath  the  bare,  twisted  boughs 
of  a  great  tree  and  watched  the  dreary  land  grow 
darker  and  yet  darker;  he  wondered,  half-con- 
sciously,  where  he  was  and  how  he  had  come  to 
that  place,  remembering,  faintly,  tales  of  like  ad- 
venture. A  man  passed  by  a  familiar  wall  onq 
day,  and  opening  a  door  before  unnoticed,  found 
himself  in  a  new  world  of  unsurmised  and  marvel- 
lous experiences.  Another  man  shot  an  arrow 
farther  than  any  of  his  friends  and  became  the 
husband  of  the  fairy.  Yet — this  was  not  fairy- 
land; these  were  rather  the  sad  fields  and  unhappy 
graves  of  the  underworld  than  the  abode  of  end- 
less pleasures  and  undying  delights.  And  yet  in 
all  that  he  saw  there  was  the  promise  of  great 
wonder. 

Only  one  thing  was  clear  to  him.  He  knew 
that  he  was  Ambrose,  that  he  had  been  driven 
from  great  and  unspeakable  joys  into  miserable 
exile  and  banishment.  He  had  come  from  a  far, 
far  place  by  a  hidden  way,  and  darkness  had 
closed  about  him,  and  bitter  drink  and  deadly 
meat  were  given  him,  and  all  gladness  was  hidden 
from  him.  This  was  all  he  could  remember;  and 
now  he  was  astray,  he  knew  not  how  or  why,  in 
this  wild,  sad  land,  and  the  night  descended  dark 
upon  him. 

Suddenly  there  was,  as  it  were,  a  cry  far  away 
in  the  shadowy  silence,  and  the  thorn  bushes  be- 


The  Secret  Glory 

gan  to  rustle  before  a  shrilling  wind  that  rose 
as  the  night  came  down.  At  this  summons  the 
heavy  clouds  broke  up  and  dispersed,  fleeting 
across  the  sky,  and  the  pure  heaven  appeared  with 
the  last  rose  flush  of  the  sunset  dying  from  it, 
and  there  shone  the  silver  light  of  the  evening 
star.  Ambrose's  heart  was  drawn  up  to  this  light 
as  he  gazed:  he  saw  that  the  star  grew  greater 
and  greater;  it  advanced  towards  him  through  the 
air;  its  beams  pierced  to  his  soul  as  if  they  were 
the  sound  of  a  silver  trumpet.  An  ocean  of  white 
splendour  flowed  over  him:  he  dwelt  within  the 
star. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment;  he  was  still  sitting 
beneath  the  tree  of  the  twisted  branches.  But 
the  sky  was  now  clear  and  filled  with  a  great 
peace ;  the  wind  had  fallen  and  a  more  happy  light 
shone  on  the  great  plain.  Ambrose  was  thirsty, 
and  then  he  saw  that  beside  the  tree  there  was  a 
well,  half  hidden  by  the  arching  roots  that  rose 
above  it.  The  water  was  still  and  shining,  as 
though  it  were  a  mirror  of  black  marble,  and 
marking  the  brim  was  a  great  stone  on  which  were 
cut  the  letters: 

"FONS  VITAI  IMMORTALIS." 

He  rose  and,  bending  over  the  well,  put  down 
his  lips  to  drink,  and  his  soul  and  body  were  filled 

57 


The  Secret  Glory 

as  with  a  flood  of  joy.  Now  he  knew  that  all  his 
days  of  exile  he  had  borne  with  pain  and  grief  a 
heavy,  weary  body.  There  had  been  dolours  in 
every  limb  and  achings  in  every  bone;  his  feet 
had  dragged  upon  the  ground,  slowly,  wearily,  as 
the  feet  of  those  who  go  in  chains.  But  dim, 
broken  spectres,  miserable  shapes  and  crooked  im- 
ages of  the  world  had  his  eyes  seen;  for  they 
were  eyes  bleared  with  sickness,  darkened  by  the 
approach  of  death.  Now,  indeed,  he  clearly  be- 
held the  shining  vision  of  things  immortal.  He 
drank  great  draughts  of  the  dark,  glittering  wa- 
ter, drinking,  it  seemed,  the  light  of  the  reflected 
stars;  and  he  was  filled  with  life.  Every  sinew, 
every  muscle,  every  particle  of  the  deadly  flesh 
shuddered  and  quickened  in  the  communion  of 
that  well-water.  The  nerves  and  veins  rejoiced 
together;  all  his  being  leapt  with  gladness,  and 
as  one  finger  touched  another,  as  he  still  bent  over 
the  well,  a  spasm  of  exquisite  pleasure  quivered 
and  thrilled  through  his  body.  His  heart 
throbbed  with  bliss  that  was  unendurable;  sense 
and  intellect  and  soul  and  spirit  were,  as  it  were, 
sublimed  into  one  white  flame  of  delight.  And 
all  the  while  it  was  known  to  him  that  these  were 
but  the  least  of  the  least  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
kingdom,  but  the  overrunnings  and  base  tricklings 
of  the  great  supernal  cup.  He  saw,  without 
amazement,  that,  though  the  sun  had  set,  the  sky 


The  Secret  Glory 

now  began  to  flush  and  redden  as  if  with  the 
northern  light.  It  was  no  longer  the  evening,  no 
longer  the  time  of  the  procession  of  the  dusky 
night.  The  darkness  doubtless  had  passed  away 
in  mortal  hours  while  for  an  infinite  moment  he 
tasted  immortal  drink;  and  perhaps  one  drop  of 
that  water  was  endless  life.  But  now  it  was  the 
preparation  for  the  day.  He  heard  the  words: 

"Dies  venit,  dies  Tua 

In    qua    reflorent    omnia." 

They  were  uttered  within  his  heart,  and  he 
saw  that  all  was  being  made  ready  for  a  great 
festival.  Over  everything  there  was  a  hush  of 
expectation;  and  as  he  gazed  he  knew  that  he  was 
no  longer  in  that  weary  land  of  dun  ploughland 
and  grey  meadow,  of  the  wild,  bare  trees  and 
strange  stunted  thorn  bushes.  He  was  on  a  hill- 
side, lying  on  the  verge  of  a  great  wood;  beneath, 
in  the  valley,  a  brook  sang  faintly  under  the 
leaves  of  the  silvery  willows;  and  beyond,  far  in 
the  east,  a  vast  wall  of  rounded  mountain  rose 
serene  towards  the  sky.  All  about  him  was  the 
green  world  of  the  leaves :  odours  of  the  summer 
night,  deep  in  the  mystic  heart  of  the  wood, 
odours  of  many  flowers,  and  the  cool  breath  ris- 
ing from  the  singing  stream  mingled  in  his  nos- 
trils. The  world  whitened  to  the  dawn,  and 

59 


The  Secret  Glory 

then,  as  the  light  grew  clear,  the  rose  clouds  blos- 
somed in  the  sky  and,  answering,  the  earth  seemed 
to  glitter  with  rose-red  sparks  and  glints  of  flame. 
All  the  east  became  as  a  garden  of  roses,  red 
flowers  of  living  light  shone  over  the  mountain, 
and  as  the  beams  of  the  sun  lit  up  the  circle  of 
the  earth  a  bird's  song  began  from  a  tree  within 
the  wood.  Then  were  heard  the  modulations  of 
a  final  and  exultant  ecstasy,  the  chant  of  libera- 
tion, a  magistral  In  Exitu;  there  was  the  melody 
of  rejoicing  trills,  of  unwearied,  glad  reiterations 
of  choirs  ever  aspiring,  prophesying  the  coming 
of  the  great  feast,  singing  the  eternal  antiphon. 
As  the  song  aspired  into  the  heights,  so  there 
aspired  suddenly  before  him  the  walls  and  pin- 
nacles of  a  great  church  set  upon  a  high  hill.  It 
was  far  off,  and  yet  as  though  it  were  close  at 
hand  he  saw  all  the  delicate  and  wonderful 
imagery  cut  in  its  stones.  The  great  door  in  the 
west  was  a  miracle :  every  flower  and  leaf,  every 
reed  and  fern,  were  clustered  in  the  work  of  the 
capitals,  and  in  the  round  arch  above  moulding 
within  moulding  showed  all  the  beasts  that  God 
has  made.  He  saw  the  rose-window,  a  maze  of 
fretted  tracery,  the  high  lancets  of  the  fair  hall, 
the  marvellous  buttresses,  set  like  angels  about 
this  holy  house,  whose  pinnacles  were  as  a  place 
of  many  springing  trees.  And  high  above  the 
vast,  far-lifted  vault  of  the  roof  rose  up  the  spire, 

60 


The  Secret  Glory 

golden  in  the  light.  The  bells  were  ringing  for 
the  feast;  he  heard  from  within  the  walls  the  roll 
and  swell  and  triumph  of  the  organ : 

O  plus  o  bonus  o  placidus  sonus  hymnus  eorum. 

He  knew  not  how  he  had  taken  his  place  in  this 
great  procession,  how,  surrounded  by  ministrants 
in  white,  he  too  bore  his  part  in  endless  litanies. 
He  knew  not  through  what  strange  land  they 
passed  in  their  fervent,  admirable  order,  follow- 
ing their  banners  and  their  symbols  that  glanced 
on  high  before  them.  But  that  land  stood  ever, 
it  seemed,  in  a  clear,  still  air,  crowned  with 
golden  sunlight;  and  so  there  were  those  who  bore 
great  torches  of  wax,  strangely  and  beautifully 
adorned  with  golden  and  vermilion  ornaments. 
The  delicate  flame  of  these  tapers  burned  steadily 
in  the  still  sunlight,  and  the  glittering  silver  cen- 
sers as  they  rose  and  fell  tossed  a  pale  cloud  into 
the  air.  They  delayed,  now  and  again,  by  way- 
side shrines,  giving  thanks  for  unutterable  com- 
passions, and,  advancing  anew,  the  blessed  com- 
pany surged  onward,  moving  to  its  unknown  goal 
in  the  far  blue  mountains  that  rose  beyond  the 
plain.  There  were  faces  and  shapes  of  awful 
beauty  about  him;  he  saw  those  in  whose  eyes 
were  the  undying  lamps  of  heaven,  about  whose 
heads  the  golden  hair  was  as  an  aureole;  and 

61 


The  Secret  Glory 

there  were  they  that  above  the  girded  vesture  of 
white  wore  dyed  garments,  and  as  they  advanced 
around  their  feet  there  was  the  likeness  of  dim 
flames. 

The  great  white  array  had  vanished  and  he 
was  alone.  He  was  tracking  a  secret  path  that 
wound  in  and  out  through  the  thickets  of  a  great 
forest.  By  solitary  pools  of  still  water,  by  great 
oaks,  worlds  of  green  leaves,  by  fountains  and 
streams  of  water,  by  the  bubbling,  mossy  sources 
of  the  brooks  he  followed  this  hidden  way,  now 
climbing  and  now  descending,  but  still  mounting 
upward,  still  passing,  as  he  knew,  farther  and 
farther  from  all  the  habitations  of  men.  Through 
the  green  boughs  now  he  saw  the  shining  sea- 
water;  he  saw  the  land  of  the  old  saints,  all  the 
divisions  of  the  land  that  men  had  given  to  them 
for  God;  he  saw  their  churches,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  he  could  hear,  very  faintly,  the  noise  of  the 
ringing  of  their  holy  bells.  Then,  at  last,  when 
he  had  crossed  the  Old  Road,  and  had  gone  by 
the  Lightning-struck  Land  and  the  Fisherman's 
Well,  he  found,  between  the  forest  and  the  moun- 
tain, a  very  ancient  and  little  chapel;  and  now 
he  heard  the  bell  of  the  saint  ringing  clearly  and 
so  sweetly  that  it  was  as  it  were  the  singing  of 
the  angels.  Within  it  was  very  dark  and  there 
was  silence.  He  knelt  and  saw  scarcely  that  the 
chapel  was  divided  into  two  parts  by  a  screen 

62 


The  Secret  Glory 

that  rose  up  to  the  round  ,roof.  There  was  a 
glinting  of  shapes  as  if  golden  figures  were  painted 
on  this  screen,  and  through  the  joinings  of  its 
beams  there  streamed  out  thin  needles  of  white 
splendour  as  if  within  there  was  a  light  greater 
than  that  of  the  sun  at  noonday.  And  the  flesh 
began  to  tremble,  for  all  the  place  was  filled  with 
the  odours  of  Paradise,  and  he  heard  the  ringing 
of  the  Holy  Bell  and  the  voices  of  the  choir  that 
out-sang  the  Fairy  Birds  of  Rhiannon,  crying  and 
proclaiming: 

"Glory  and  praise  to  the  Conqueror  of  Death:  to  the 
Fountain  of  Life  Unending." 

Nine  times  they  sang  this  anthem,  and  then  the 
whole  place  was  filled  with  blinding  light.  For  a 
door  in  the  screen  had  been  opened,  and  there 
came  forth  an  old  man,  all  in  shining  white,  on 
whose  head  was  a  gold  crown.  Before  him  went 
one  who  rang  the  bell;  on  each  side  there  were 
young  men  with  torches;  and  in  his  hands  he  bore 
the  Mystery  of  Mysteries  wrapped  about  in  veils 
of  gold  and  of  all  colours,  so  that  it  might  not  be 
discerned;  and  so  he  passed  before  the  screen, 
and  the  light  of  heaven  burst  forth  from  that 
which  he  held.  Then  he  entered  in  again  by  a 
door  that  was  on  the  other  side,  and  the  Holy 
Things  were  hidden. 

63 


. 


The  Secret  Glory 

And  Ambrose  heard  from  within  an  awful  voice 
and  the  words: 

Woe  and  great  sorrow  are  on  him,  for  he  hath 
looked  unworthily  into  the  Tremendous  Myster- 
ies, and  on  the  Secret  Glory  which  is  hidden  from 
the  Holy  Angels. 

II 

"Poetry  is  the  only  possible  way  of  saying  any- 
thing that  is  worth  saying  at  all."  This  was  an 
axiom  that,  in  later  years,  Ambrose  Meyrick's 
friends  were  forced  to  hear  at  frequent  intervals. 
He  would  go  on  to  say  that  he  used  the  term 
poetry  in  its  most  liberal  sense,  including  in  it  all 
mystic  or  symbolic  prose,  all  painting  and  statuary 
that  was  worthy  to  be  called  art,  all  great  archi- 
tecture, and  all  true  music.  He  meant,  it  is  to  be 
presumed,  that  the  mysteries  can  only  be  conveyed 
by  symbols;  unfortunately,  however,  he  did  not 
always  make  it  quite  clear  that  this  was  the  prop- 
osition that  he  intended  to  utter,  and  thus  offence 
was  sometimes  given — as,  for  example,  to  the 
scientific  gentleman  who  had  been  brought  to 
Meyrick's  rooms  and  went  away  early,  wonder- 
ing audibly  and  sarcastically  whether  "your  clever 
friend"  wanted  to  metrify  biology  and  set  Euclid 
to  Bach's  Organ  Fugues. 

However,  the  Great  Axiom  (as  he  called  it) 

64 


The  Secret  Glory 

was  the  justification  that  he  put  forward  in  de- 
fence of  the  notes  on  which  the  previous  section 
is  based. 

"Of  course,"  he  would  say,  "the  symbolism  is 
inadequate;  but  that  is  the  defect  of  speech  of 
any  kind  when  you  have  once  ventured  beyond 
the  multiplication  table  and  the  jargon  of  the 
Stock  Exchange.  Inadequacy  of  expression  is 
merely  a  minor  part  of  the  great  tragedy  of  hu- 
manity. Only  an  ass  thinks  that  he  has  succeeded 
in  uttering  the  perfect  content  of  his  thought 
without  either  excess  or  defect." 

"Then,  again,"  he  might  go  on,  "the  symbolism 
would  very  likely  be  misleading  to  a  great  many 
people;  but  what  is  one  to  do?  I  believe  many 
good  people  find  Turner  mad  and  Dickens  tire- 
some. And  if  the  great  sometimes  fail,  what 
hope  is  there  for  the  little?  We  cannot  all  be — 
well — popular  novelists  of  the  day." 

Of  course,  the  notes  in  question  were  made 
many  years  after  the  event  they  commemorate; 
they  were  the  man's  translation  of  all  the  won- 
derful and  inexpressible  emotions  of  the  boy; 
and,  as  Meyrick  puts  it,  many  "words"  (or  sym- 
bols) are  used  in  them  which  were  unknown  to 
the  lad  of  fifteen. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  said,  "they  are  the  best 
words  that  I  can  find." 

As  has  been  said,  the  Old  Grange  was  a  large, 

65 


The  Secret  Glory 

roomy  house ;  a  space  could  easily  have  been  found 
for  half  a  dozen  more  boys  if  the  High  Usher  had 
cared  to  be  bothered  with  them.  As  it  was,  it 
was  a  favour  to  be  at  Horbury's,  and  there  was 
usually  some  personal  reason  for  admission. 
Pelly,  for  example,  was  the  son  of  an  old  friend  ; 
Bates  was  a  distant  cousin;  and  Rawson's  father 
was  the  master  of  a  small  Grammar  School  in 
the  north  with  which  certain  ancestral  Horburys 
were  somehow  connected.  The  Old  Grange  was 
a  fine  large  Caroline  house;  it  had  a  grave  front 
of  red  brick,  mellowed  with  age,  tier  upon  tier 
of  tall,  narrow  windows,  flush  with  the  walls,  and 
a  high-pitched,  red-tiled  roof.  Above  the  front 
door  was  a  rich  and  curious  wooden  pent-house, 
deeply  carven;  and  within  there  was  plenty  of 
excellent  panelling,  and  some  good  mantelpieces, 
added,  it  would  seem,  somewhere  about  the 
Adam  period.  Horbury  had  seen  its  solid  and 
comfortable  merits  and  had  bought  the  freehold 
years  before  at  a  great  bargain.  The  school  was 
increasing  rapidly  even  in  those  days,  and  he  knew 
that  before  long  more  houses  would  be  required^ 
If  he  left  Lupton  he  would  be  able  to  let  the  Old 
Grange  easily — he  might  almost  put  it  up  for 
auction — and  the  rent  would  represent  a  return 
of  fifty  per  cent  on  his  investment.  Many  of  the 
rooms  were  large,  of  a  size  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  boys'  needs,  and  at  a  very  trifling  expense 

66 


The  Secret  Glory 

partitions  might  be  made  and  the  nine  or  ten 
available  rooms  be  subdivided  into  studies  for 
twenty  or  even  twenty-five  boys.  Nature  had 
gifted  the  High  Usher  with  a  careful,  provident 
mind  in  all  things,  both  great  and  small;  and  it 
is  but  fair  to  add  that  on  his  leaving  Lupton  for 
Wareham  he  found  his  anticipations  more  than 
justified.  To  this  day  Charles  Horbury,  his 
nephew,  a  high  Government  official,  draws  a  com- 
fortable income  from  his  uncle's  most  prudent 
investment,  and  the  house  easily  holds  its  twenty- 
five  boys.  Rainy,  who  took  the  place  from  Hor- 
bury, was  an  ingenious  fellow  and  hit  upon  a  capi- 
tal plan  for  avoiding  the  expense  of  making  new 
windows  for  some  of  the  subdivided  studies. 
After  thoughtful  consideration  he  caused  the 
wooden  partitions  which  were  put  up  to  stop  short 
of  the  ceiling  by  four  inches,  and  by  this  device 
the  study  with  a  window  lighted  the  study  that 
had  none;  and,  as  Rainy  explained  to  some  of  the 
parents,  a  diffused  light  was  really  better  for  the 
eyes  than,  a  direct  one. 

»  In  the  old  days,  when  Ambrose  Meyrick  was 
being  made  a  man  of,  the  four  boys  "rattled," 
as  it  were,  in  the  big  house.  They  were  scattered 
about  in  odd  corners,  remote  from  each  other, 
and  it  seemed  from  everybody  else.  Meyrick's 
room  was  the  most  isolated  of  any,  but  it  was 
also  the  most  comfortable  in  winter,  since  it  was 

67 


The  Secret  Glory 

over  the  kitchen,  to  the  extreme  left  of  the  house. 
This  part,  which  was  hidden  from  the  road  by 
the  boughs  of  a  great  cedar,  was  an  after-thought, 
a  Georgian  addition  in  grey  brick,  and  rose  only  to 
two  stories,  and  in  the  one  furnished  room  out 
of  the  three  or  four  over  the  kitchen  and  offices 
slept  Ambrose.  He  wished  his  days  could  be  as 
quiet  and  retired  as  his  nights.  He  loved  the 
shadows  that  were  about  his  bed  even  on  the 
brightest  mornings  in  summer;  for  the  cedar 
boughs  were  dense,  and  ivy  had  been  allowed  to 
creep  about  the  panes  of  the  window;  so  the  light 
entered  dim  and  green,  filtered  through  the  dark 
boughs  and  the  ivy  tendrils. 

Here,  then,  after  the  hour  of  ten  each  night, 
he  dwelt  secure.  Now  and  again  Mr.  Horbury 
would  pay  nocturnal  surprise  visits  to  see  that  all 
lights  were  out;  but,  happily,  the  stairs  at  the  end 
of  the  passage,  being  old  and  badly  fitted,  gave 
out  a  succession  of  cracks  like  pistol  shots  if  the 
softest  foot  was  set  on  them.  It  was  simple, 
therefore,  on  hearing  the  first  of  these  reports, 
to  extinguish  the  candle  in  the  small  secret  lantern 
(held  warily  so  that  no  gleam  of  light  should 
appear  from  under  the  door)  and  to  conceal  the 
lantern  under  the  bed-clothes.  One  wetted  one's 
finger  and  pinched  at  the  flame,  so  there  was  no 
smell  of  the  expiring  snuff,  and  the  lantern  slide 
was  carefully  drawn  to  guard  against  the  possi- 

68 


The  Secret  Glory 

bility  of  suspicious  grease-marks  on  the  linen.  It 
was  perfect;  and  old  Horbury's  visits,  which  were 
rare  enough,  had  no  terrors  for  Ambrose. 

So  that  night,  while  the  venom  of  the  cane  still 
rankled  in  his  body,  though  it  had  ceased  to  dis- 
turb his  mind,  instead  of  going  to  bed  at  once, 
according  to  the  regulations,  he  sat  for  a  while 
on  his  box  seeking  a  clue  in  a  maze  of  odd  fancies 
and  conceits.  He  took  off  his  clothes  and 
wrapped  his  aching  body  in  the  rug  from  the  bed, 
and  presently,  blowing  out  the  official  paraffin 
lamp,  he  lit  his  candle,  ready  at  'the  first  warning 
creak  on  the  stairs  to  douse  the  glim  and  leap 
between  the  sheets. 

Odd  enough  were  his  first  cogitations.  He 
was  thinking  how  very  sorry  he  was  to  have  hit 
Pelly  that  savage  blow  and  to  have  endangered 
Rawson's  eyesight  by  the  hard  boards  of  the  dic- 
tionary! This  was  eccentric,  for  he  had  en- 
dured from  those  two  young  Apaches  every 
extremity  of  unpleasantness  for  upwards  of  a 
couple  of  years.  Pelly  was  not  by  any  means  an 
evil  lad:  he  was  stupid  and  beefy  within  and  with- 
out, and  the  great  Public  School  system  was 
transmuting  him,  in  the  proper  course  and  by  the 
proper  steps,  into  one  of  those  Brave  Average 
Boobies  whom  Meyrick  used  to  rail  against  after- 
wards. Pelly,  in  all  probability  (his  fortunes 
have  not  been  traced),  went  into  the  Army  and 

69 


The  Secret  Glory 

led  the  milder  and  more  serious  subalterns  the 
devil's  own  life.  In  India  he  "lay  doggo"  with 
great  success  against  some  hill  tribe  armed  with 
seventeenth-century  muskets  and  rather  barbarous 
knives;  he  seems  to  have  been  present  at  that 
"Conference  of  the  Powers"  described  so  brightly 
by  Mr.  Kipling.  Promoted  to  a  captaincy,  he 
fought  with  conspicuous  bravery  in  South  Africa, 
winning  the  Victoria  Cross  for  his  rescue  of  a 
wounded  private  at  the  instant  risk  of  his  own 
life,  and  he  finally  led  his  troop  into  a  snare  set 
by  an  old  farmer;  a  rabbit  of  average  intelligence 
would  have  smelt  and  evaded  it. 

For  Rawson  one  is  sorry,  but  one  cannot,  in 
conscience,  say  much  that  is  good,  though  he  has 
been  praised  for  his  tact.  He  became  domestic 
chaplain  to  the  Bishop  of  Dorchester,  whose 
daughter  Emily  he  married. 

But  in  those  old  days  there  was  very  little  to 
choose  between  them,  from  Meyrick's  point  of 
view.  Each  had  displayed  a  quite  devilish  in- 
genuity in  the  art  of  annoyance,  in  the  whole 
cycle  of  jeers  and  sneers  and  "scores,"  as  known 
to  the  schoolboy,  and  they  were  just  proceeding 
to  more  active  measures.  Meyrick  had  borne  it 
all  meekly;  he  had  returned  kindly  and  sometimes 
quaint  answers  to  the  unceasing  stream  of  re- 
marks that  were  meant  to  wound  his  feelings,  to 
make  him  look  a  fool  before  any  boys  that  hap- 

70 


The  Secret  Glory 

pened  to  be  about.  He  had  only  countered  with 
a  mild:  "What  do  you  do  that  for,  Pelly?"  when 
the  brave  one  smacked  his  head.  "Because  I  hate 
sneaks  and  funks,"  Pelly  had  replied  and  Mey- 
rick  said  no  more.  Rawson  took  a  smaller  size 
in  victims  when  it  was  a  question  of  physical  tor- 
ments; but  he  had  invented  a  most  offensive  tale 
about  Meyrick  and  had  told  it  all  over  the  school, 
where  it  was  universally  believed.  In  a  word, 
the  two  had  done  their  utmost  to  reduce  him  to 
a  state  of  utter  misery;  and  now  he  was  sorry 
that  he  had  punched  the  nose  of  one  and  bom- 
barded the  other  with  a  dictionary! 

The  fact  was  that  his  forebearance  had  not  been 
all  cowardice;  it  is,  indeed,  doubtful  whether  he 
was  in  the  real  sense  a  coward  at  all.  He  went 
in  fear,  it  is  true,  all  his  days,  but  what  he  feared 
was  not  the  insult,  but  the  intention,  the  malig- 
nancy of  which  the  insult,  or  the  blow,  was  the 
outward  sign.  The  fear  of  a  mad  bull  is  quite 
distinct  from  the  horror  with  which  most  people 
look  upon  a  viper;  it  was  the  latter  feeling  which 
made  Meyrick's  life  a  burden  to  him.  And  again 
there  was  a  more  curious  shade  of  feeling;  and 
that  was  the  intense  hatred  that  he  felt  to  the 
mere  thought  of  "scoring"  off  an  antagonist,  of 
beating  down  the  enemy.  He  was  a  much 
sharper  lad  than  either  Rawson  or  Pelly;  he  could 
have  retorted  again  and  again  with  crushing 

71 


The  Secret  Glory 

effect,  but  he  held  his  tongue,  for  all  such  victories 
were  detestable  to  him.  And  this  odd  sentiment 
governed  all  his  actions  and  feelings;  he  disliked 
"going  up"  in  form,  he  disliked  winning  a  game, 
not  through  any  acquired  virtue,  but  by  inherent 
nature.  Poe  would  have  understood  Meyrick's 
feelings;  but  then  the  author  of  The  Imp  of  the 
Perverse  penetrated  so  deeply  into  the  inmost 
secrets  of  humanity  that  Anglo-Saxon  criticism 
has  agreed  in  denouncing  him  as  a  wholly  "in- 
human" writer. 

With  Meyrick  this  mode  of  feeling  had  grown 
stronger  by  provocation;  the  more  he  was  injured, 
the  more  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of  return- 
ing the  injury.  In  a  great  measure  the  sentiment 
remained  with  him  in  later  life.  He  would  sally 
forth  from  his  den  in  quest  of  fresh  air  on  top 
of  an  omnibus  and  stroll  peacefully  back  again 
rather  than  struggle  for  victory  with  the  furious 
crowd.  It  was  not  so  much  that  he  disliked  the 
physical  contest:  he  was  afraid  of  getting  a 
seat!  Quite  naturally,  he  said  that  people  who 
"pushed,"  in  the  metaphorical  sense,  always  re- 
minded him  of  the  hungry  little  pigs  fighting  for 
the  largest  share  of  the  wash;  but  he  seemed  to 
think  that,  whereas  this  course  of  action  was  nat- 
ural in  the  little  pigs,  it  was  profoundly  unnatural 
in  the  little  men.  But  in  his  early  boyhood  he  had 
carried  this  secret  doctrine  of  his  to  its  utmost 

72 


The  Secret  Glory 

limits;  he  had  assumed,  as  it  were,  the  role  of 
the  coward  and  the  funk;  he  had,  without  any 
conscious  religious  motive  certainly,  but  in  obedi- 
ence to  an  inward  command,  endeavoured  to  play 
the  part  of  a  Primitive  Christian,  of  a  religious, 
in  a  great  Public  School!  Ama  nesciri  et  pro  m- 
hilo  astimari.  The  maxim  was  certainly  in  his 
heart,  though  he  had  never  heard  it;  but  perhaps 
if  he  had  searched  the  whole  world  over  he  could 
not  have  found  a  more  impossible  field  for  its 
exercise  than  this  seminary,  where  the  broad,  lib- 
eral principles  of  Christianity  were  taught  in  a 
way  that  satisfied  the  Press,  the  public  and  the 
parents. 

And  he  sat  in  his  room  and  grieved  over  the 
fashion  in  which  he  had  broken  this  discipline. 
Still,  something  had  to  be  done :  he  was  compelled 
to  stay  in  this  place,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
reduced  to  the  imbecility  of  wretched  little  Phipps 
who  had  become  at  last  more  like  a  whimpering 
kitten  with  the  mange  than  a  human  being.  One 
had  not  the  right  to  allow  oneself  to  be  made  an 
idiot,  so  the  principle  had  to  be  infringed — but 
externally  only,  never  internally!  Of  that  he 
was  firmly  resolved;  and  he  felt  secure  in  his  rec- 
ollection that  there  had  been  no  anger  in  his  heart. 
He  resented  the  presence  of  Pelly  and  Rawson, 
certainly,  but  in  the  manner  with  which  some 
people  resent  the  presence  of  a  cat,  a  mouse,  or 

73 


The  Secret  Glory 

a  black-beetle,  as  disagreeable  objects  which  can't 
help  being  disagreeable  objects.  But  his  bashing 
of  Pelly  and  his  smashing  of  Rawson,  his  remarks 
(gathered  from  careful  observation  by  the  banks 
of  the  Lupton  and  Birmingham  Canal)  ;  all  this 
had  been  but  the  means  to  an  end,  the  securing  of 
peace  and  quiet  for  the  future.  He  would  not 
be  murdered  by  this  infernal  Public  School  system 
either,  after  the  fashion  of  Phipps — which  was 
melancholy,  or  after  the  fashion  of  the  rest — 
which  was  more  melancholy  still,  since  it  is  easier 
to  recover  from  nervous  breakdown  than  from 
suffusion  of  cant  through  the  entire  system,  men- 
tal and  spiritual.  Utterly  from  his  heart  he  ab- 
jured and  renounced  all  the  horrible  shibboleths 
of  the  school,  its  sham  enthusiasm,  its  "ethos,"  its 
"tone,"  its  "loyal  co-operation — masters  and  boys 
working  together  for  the  good  of  the  whole 
school" — all  its  ridiculous  fetish  conventions  and 
absurd  observances,  the  joint  contrivances  of 
young  fools  and  old  knaves.  But  his  resistance 
should  be  secret  and  not  open,  for  a  while;  there 
should  be  no  more  "bashing"  than  was  absolutely 
necessary. 

And  one  thing  he  resolved  upon — he  would 
make  all  he  could  out  of  the  place;  he  would 
work  like  a  tiger  and  get  all  the  Latin  and  Greek 
and  French  obtainable,  in  spite  of  the  teaching 
and  its  imbecile  pedantry.  The  school  work 

74 


The  Secret  Glory 

must  be  done,  so  that  trouble  might  be  avoided, 
but  here  at  night  in  his  room  he  would  really 
learn  the  languages  they  pottered  over  in  form, 
wasting  half  their  time  in  writing  sham  Cicero- 
nian prose  which  would  have  made  Cicero  sick, 
and  verse  evil  enough  to  cause  Virgil  to  vomit. 
Then  there  was  French,  taught  chiefly  out  of 
pompous  eighteenth-century  fooleries,  with  lists 
of  irregular  verbs  to  learn  and  Babylonish  non- 
sense about  the  past  participle,  and  many  other 
rotten  formulas  and  rules,  giving  to  the  whole 
tongue  the  air  of  a  tiresome  puzzle  which  had 
been  dug  up  out  of  a  prehistoric  grave.  This 
was  not  the  French  that  he  wanted ;  still,  he  could 
write  out  irregular  verbs  by  day  and  learn  the 
language  at  night.  He  wondered  whether  un- 
happy French  boys  had  to  learn  English  out  of 
the  Ramtiler,  Blair's  Sermons  and  Young's  Night 
Thoughts.  For  he  had  some  sort  of  smattering 
of  English  literature  which  a  Public  School  boy 
has  no  business  to  possess.  So  he  went  on  with 
this  mental  tirade  of  his :  one  is  not  over-wise  at 
fifteen.  It  is  true  enough,  perhaps,  that  the 
French  of  the  average  English  schoolboy  is  some- 
thing fit  to  move  only  pity  and  terror;  it  may  be 
true  also  that  nobody  except  Deans  and  school- 
masters seems  to  bring  away  even  the  formulas 
and  sacred  teachings  (such  as  the  Optative  mys- 
tery and  the  Doctrine  of  Dum)  of  the  two  great 

75 


The  Secret  Glory 

literatures.  There  is,  doubtless,  a  good  deal  to 
be  said  on  the  subject  of  the  Public  Schoolman's 
knowledge  of  the  history  and  literature  of  his  own 
country;  an  infinite  deal  of  comic  stuff  might  be 
got  out  of  his  views  and  acquirements  in  the  great 
science  of  theology — still  let  us  say,  Floreat! 

Meyrick  turned  from  his  review  of  the  wisdom 
of  his  elders  and  instructors  to  more  intimate 
concerns.  There  were  a  few  cuts  of  that  vigor- 
ous cane  which  still  stung  and  hurt  most  abomi- 
nably, for  skill  or  fortune  had  guided  Mr.  Hor- 
bury's  hand  so  that  he  had  been  enabled  here 
and  there  to  get  home  twice  in  the  same  place, 
and  there  was  one  particular  weal  on  the  left 
arm  where  the  flesh,  purple  and  discoloured,  had 
swelled  up  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  bursting. 
It  was  no  longer  with  rage,  but  with  a  kind  of 
rapture,  that  he  felt  the  pain  and  smarting;  he 
looked  upon  the  ugly  marks  of  the  High  Usher's 
evil  humours  as  though  they  had  been  a  robe  of 
splendour.  For  he  knew  nothing  of  that  bad 
sherry,  nothing  of  the  Head's  conversation;  he 
knew  that  when  Pelly  had  come  in  quite  as  late 
it  had  only  been  a  question  of  a  hundred  lines, 
and  so  he  persisted  in  regarding  himself  as  a 
martyr  in  the  cause  of  those  famous  "Norman 
arches,'"  which  was  the  cause  of  that  dear  dead 
enthusiast,  his  father,  who  loved  Gothic  archi- 
tecture and  all  other  beautiful  "unpractical" 

76 


The  Secret  Glory 

things  with  an  undying  passion.  As  soon  as  Am- 
brose could  walk  he  had  begun  his  pilgrimages 
to  hidden  mystic  shrines;  his  father  had  led  him 
over  the  wild  lands  to  places  known  perhaps  only 
to  himself,  and  there,  by  the  ruined  stones,  by 
the  smooth  hillock,  had  told  the  tale  of  the  old 
vanished  time,  the  time  of  the  "old  saints." 

ill 

It  was  for  this  blessed  and  wonderful  learning, 
he  said  to  himself,  that  he  had  been  beaten,  that 
his  body  had  been  scored  with  red  and  purple 
stripes.  He  remembered  his  father's  oft-re- 
peated exclamation,  "cythrawl  Sais!"  He  under- 
stood that  the  phrase  damned  not  Englishmen 
qua  Englishmen,  but  Anglo-Saxonism — the  power 
of  the  creed  that  builds  Manchester,  that  "does 
business,"  that  invents  popular  dissent,  repre- 
sentative government,  adulteration,  suburbs,  and 
the  Public  School  system.  It  was,  according  to 
his  father,  the  creed  of  "the  Prince  of  this 
world,"  the  creed  that  made  for  comfort,  success, 
a  good  balance  at  the  bank,  the  praise  of  men, 
the  sensible  and  tangible  victory  and  achievement; 
and  he  bade  his  little  boy,  who  heard  everything 
and  understood  next  to  nothing,  fly  from  it,  hate 
it  and  fight  against  it  as  he  would  fight  against 
the  devil — "and,"  he  would  add,  "it  is  the  only 

77 


The  Secret  Glory 

devil  you  are  ever  likely  to  come  across." 
And  the  little  Ambrose  had  understood  not 
much  of  all  this,  and  if  he  had  been  asked — even 
at  fifteen — what  it  all  meant,  he  would  probably 
have  said  that  it  was  a  great  issue  between  Nor- 
man mouldings  and  Mr.  Horbury,  an  Armaged- 
don of  Selden  Abbey  versus  rocker.  Indeed,  it 
is  doubtful  whether  old  Nicholas  Meyrick  would 
have  been  very  much  clearer,  for  he  forgot  every- 
thing that  might  be  said  on  the  other  side.  He 
forgot  that  Anglo-Saxonism  (save  in  the  United 
States  of  America)  makes  generally  for  equal 
laws;  that  civil  riot  ("Labour"  movements,  of 
course,  excepted)  is  more  a  Celtic  than  a  Saxon 
vice;  that  the  penalty  of  burning  alive  is  unknown 
amongst  Anglo-Saxons,  unless  the  provocation  be 
extreme;  that  Englishmen  have  substituted  "In- 
dentured Labour"  for  the  old-world  horrors  of 
slavery;  that  English  justice  smites  the  guilty  rich 
equally  with  the  guilty  poor;  that  men  are  no 
longer  poisoned  with  swift  and  secret  drugs, 
though  somewhat  unwholesome  food  may  still 
be  sold  very  occasionally.  Indeed,  the  old  Mey- 
rick once  told  his  rector  that  he  considered  a 
brothel  a  house  of  sanctity  compared  with  a  mod- 
ern factory,  and  he  was  beginning  to  relate  some 
interesting  tales  concerning  the  Three  Gracious 
Courtesans  of  the  Isle  of  Britain  when  the  rector 

78 


The  Secret  Glory 

fled  in  horror — he  came  from  Sydenham.  And 
all  this  was  a  nice  preparation  for  Lupton. 

A  wonderful  joy,  an  ecstasy  of  bliss,  swelled  in 
Ambrose's  heart  as  he  assured  himself  that  he 
was  a  witness,  though  a  mean  one,  for  the  old 
faith,  for  the  faith  of  secret  and  beautiful  and 
hidden  mysteries  as  opposed  to  the  faith  of  rocker 
and  sticker  and  mucker,  and  "the  thought  of  the 
school  as  an  inspiring  motive  in  life" — the  text 
on  which  the  Head  had  preached  the  Sunday 
before.  He  bared  his  arms  and  kissed  the  purple 
swollen  flesh  and  prayed  that  it  might  ever  be 
so,  that  in  body  and  mind  and  spirit  he  might  ever 
be  beaten  and  reviled  and  made  ridiculous  for 
the  sacred  things,  that  he  might  ever  be  on  the 
side  of  the  despised  and  the  unsuccessful,  that  his 
life  might  ever  be  in  the  shadow — in  the  shadow 
of  the  mysteries. 

He  thought  of  the  place  in  which  he  was,  of 
the  hideous  school,  the  hideous  town,  the  weary 
waves  of  the  dun  Midland  scenery  bounded  by 
the  dim,  hopeless  horizon;  and  his  soul  revisited 
the  faery  hills  and  woods  and  valleys  of  the 
West.  He  remembered  how,  long  ago,  his 
father  had  roused  him  early  from  sleep  in  the 
hush  and  wonder  of  a  summer  morning.  The 
whole  world  was  still  and  windless ;  all  the  magic 
odours  of  the  night  rose  from  the  earth,  and  as 

79 


The  Secret  Glory 

they  crossed  the  lawn  the  silence  was  broken  by 
the  enchanted  song  of  a  bird  rising  from  a  thorn 
tree  by  the  gate.  A  high  white  vapour  veiled 
the  sky,  and  they  only  knew  that  the  sun  had 
risen  by  the  brightening  of  this  veil,  by  the  silver- 
ing of  the  woods  and  the  meadows  and  the  water 
in  the  rejoicing  brook.  They  crossed  the  road, 
and  crossed  the  brook  in  the  field  beneath,  by  the 
old  foot-bridge  tremulous  with  age,  and  began 
to  climb  the  steep  hillside  that  one  could  see 
from  the  windows,  and,  the  ridge  of  the  hill  once 
surmounted,  the  little  boy  found  himself  in  an 
unknown  land :  he  looked  into  deep,  silent  valleys, 
watered  by  trickling  streams;  he  saw  still  woods 
in  that  dreamlike  morning  air;  he  saw  winding 
paths  that  climbed  into  yet  remoter  regions.  His 
father  led  him  onward  till  they  came  to  a  lonely 
height — they  had  walked  scarcely  two  miles,  but 
to  Ambrose  it  seemed  a  journey  into  another 
world — and  showed  him  certain  irregular  mark- 
ings in  the  turf. 

And  Nicholas  Meyrick  murmured : 

"The  cell  of  Iltyd  is  by  the  seashore, 

The  ninth  wave  washes  its  altar, 

There  is  a  fair  shrine  in  the  land  of  Morgan. 

"The  cell  of  Dewi  is  in  the  City  of  the  Legions, 
Nine  altars  owe  obedience  to  it, 
Sovereign  is  the  choir  that  sings  about  it. 
80 


The  Secret  Glory 

"The  cell  of  Cybi  is  the  treasure  of  Gwent, 
Nine  hills  are  its  perpetual  guardians, 
Nine  songs  befit  the  memory  of  the  saint." 

"See,"  he  said,  "there  are  the  Nine  Hills." 
He  pointed  them  out  to  the  boy,  telling  him  the 
tale  of  the  saint  and  his  holy  bell,  which  they  said 
had  sailed  across  the  sea  from  Syon  and  had 
entered  the  Severn,  and  had  entered  the  Usk,  and 
had  entered  the  Soar,  and  had  entered  the 
Canthwr;  and  so  one  day  the  saint,  as  he  walked 
beside  the  little  brook  that  almost  encompassed 
the  hill  in  its  winding  course,  saw  the  bell  "that 
was  made  of  metal  that  no  man  might  compre- 
hend," floating  under  the  alders,  and  crying: 

"Sant,   sant,   sant, 
I  sail  from  Syon 
To  Cybi  Sant!" 

"And  so  sweet  was  the  sound  of  that  bell," 
Ambrose's  father  went  on,  "that  they  said  it  was 
as  the  joy  of  angels  ym  Mharadwys,  and  that  it 
must  have  come  not  from  the  earthly,  but  from 
the  heavenly  and  glorious  Syon." 

And  there  they  stood  in  the  white  morning,  on 
the  uneven  ground  that  marked  the  place  where 
once  the  Saint  rang  to  the  sacrifice,  where  the 
quickening  words  were  uttered  after  the  order 
of  the  Old  Mass  of  the  Britons. 

8l 


The  Secret  Glory 

"And  then  came  the  Yellow  Hag  of  Pestilence, 
that  destroyed  the  bodies  of  the  Cymri ;  then  the 
Red  Hag  of  Rome,  that  caused  their  souls  to 
stray;  last  is  come  the  Black  Hag  of  Geneva,  that 
sends  body  and  soul  quick  to  hell.  No  honour 
have  the  saints  any  more." 

Then  they  turned  home  again,  and  all  the  way 
Ambrose  thought  he  heard  the  bell  as  it  sailed 
the  great  deeps  from  Syon,  crying  aloud:  "Sant, 
Sant,  Sant!"  And  the  sound  seemed  to  echo  from 
the  glassy  water  of  the  little  brook,  as  it  swirled 
and  rippled  over  the  shining  stones  circling  round 
those  lonely  hills. 

So  they  made  strange  pilgimages  over  the  be- 
loved land,  going  farther  and  farther  afield  as 
the  boy  grew  older.  They  visited  deep  wells  in 
the  heart  of  the  woods,  where  a  few  broken 
stones,  perhaps,  were  the  last  remains  of  the  her- 
mitage. "Ffynnon  liar  Bysgootwr — the  well  of 
Saint  liar  the  Fisherman,"  Nicholas  Meyrick 
would  explain,  and  then  would  follow  the  story 
of  liar;  how  no  man  knew  whence  he  came  or 
who  his  parents  were.  He  was  found,  a  little 
child,  on  a  stone  in  a  river  in  Armorica,  by  King 
Alan,  and  rescued  by  him.  And  ever  after  they 
discovered  on  the  stone  in  the  river  where  the 
child  had  lain  every  day  a  great  and  shining  fish 
lying,  and  on  this  fish  liar  was  nourished.  And 

82 


The  Secret  Glory 

so  he  came  with  a  great  company  of  the  saints  to 
Britain,  and  wandered  over  all  the  land. 

"So  at  last  liar  Sant  came  to  this  wood,  which 
people  now  call  St.  Hilary's  wood  because  they 
have  forgotten  all  about  liar.  And  he  was 
weary  with  his  wandering,  and  the  day  was  very 
hot;  so  he  stayed  by  this  well  and  began  to  drink. 
And  there  on  that  great  stone  he  saw  the  shining 
fish,  and  so  he  rested,  and  built  an  altar  and  a 
church  of  willow  boughs,  and  offered  the  sacrifice 
not  only  for  the  quick  and  the  dead,  but  for  all 
the  wild  beasts  of  the  woods  and  the  streams. 

"And  when  this  blessed  liar  rang  his  holy  bell 
and  began  to  offer,  there  came  not  only  the  Prince 
and  his  servants,  but  all  the  creatures  of  the 
wood.  There,  under  the  hazel  boughs,  you 
might  see  the  hare,  which  flies  so  swiftly  from 
men,  come  gently  and  fall  down,  weeping  greatly 
on  account  of  the  Passion  of  the  Son  of  Mary. 
And,  beside  the  hare,  the  weasel  and  the  pole-cat 
would  lament  grievously  in  the  manner  of  peni- 
tent sinners;  and  wolves  and  lambs  together 
adored  the  saint's  hierurgy;  and  men  have  beheld 
tears  streaming  from  the  eyes  of  venomous  ser- 
pents when  liar  Agios  uttered  'Curiluson'  with 
a  loud  voice — since  the  serpent  is  not  ignorant 
that  by  its  wickedness  sorrow  came  to  the  whole 
world.  And  when,  in  the  time  of  the  holy  minis- 

83 


The  Secret  Glory 

try,  it  is  necessary  that  frequent  Alleluyas  should 
be  chanted  and  vociferated,  the  saint  wondered 
what  should  be  done,  for  as  yet  none  in  that  place 
was  skilled  in  the  art  of  song.  Then  was  a  great 
miracle,  since  from  all  the  boughs  of  the  wood, 
from  every  bush  and  from  every  green  tree,  there 
resounded  Alleluyas  in  enchanting  and  prolonged 
harmony;  never  did  the  Bishop  of  Rome  listen 
to  so  sweet  a  singing  in  his  church  as  was  heard 
in  this  wood.  For  the  nightingale  and  thrush  and 
blackbird  and  blackcap,  and  all  their  companions, 
are  gathered  together  and  sing  praises  to  the 
Lord,  chanting  distinct  notes  and  yet  concluding 
in  a  melody  of  most  ravishing  sweetness;  such 
was  the  mass  of  the  Fisherman.  Nor  was  this 
all,  for  one  day  as  the  saint  prayed  beside  the 
well  he  became  aware  that  a  bee  circled  round 
and  round  his  head,  uttering  loud  buz/ing  sounds, 
but  not  endeavouring  to  sting  him.  To  be  short; 
the  bee  went  before  liar,  and  led  him  to  a  hollow 
tree  not  far  off,  and  straightway  a  swarm  of  bees 
issued  forth,  leaving  a  vast  store  of  wax  behind 
them.  This  was  their  oblation  to  the  Most 
High,  for  from  their  wax  liar  Sant  made  goodly 
candles  to  burn  at  the  Offering;  and  from  that 
time  the  bee  is  holy,  because  his  wax  makes  light 
to  shine  upon  the  Gifts." 

This  was  part  of  the  story  that  Ambrose's 
father  read  to  him;  and  they  went  again  to  see 

8'4 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  Holy  Well.  He  looked  at  the  few  broken 
and  uneven  stones  that  were  left  to  distinguish 
it  from  common  wells;  and  there  in  the  deep 
green  wood,  in  the  summer  afternoon,  under  the 
woven  boughs,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  strange 
sound  of  the  saint's  bell,  to  see  the  woodland 
creatures  hurrying  through  the  undergrowth  that 
they  might  be  present  at  the  Offering.  The 
weasel  beat  his  little  breast  for  his  sins;  the  big 
tears  fell  down  the  gentle  face  of  the  hare;  the 
adders  wept  in  the  dust;  and  all  the  chorus  of  the 
birds  sang:  "Alleluya,  Alleluya,  Alleluya!" 

Once  they  drove  a  long  way  from  the  Wern, 
going  towards  the  west,  till  they  came  to  the 
Great  Mountain,  as  the  people  called  it.  After 
they  had  turned  from  the  high  road  they  went 
down  a  narrow  lane,  and  this  led  them  with  many 
windings  to  a  lower  ridge  of  the  mountain,  where 
the  horse  and  trap  were  put  up  at  a  solitary 
tavern.  Then  they  began  to  toil  upward  on  foot, 
crossing  many  glistening  and  rejoicing  streams 
that  rushed  out  cold  from  the  limestone  rock, 
mounting  up  and  up,  through  the  wet  land  where 
the  rare  orchis  grew  amongst  the  rushes,  through 
hazel  brakes,  through  fields  that  grew  wilder  as 
they  still  went  higher,  and  the  great  wind  came 
down  from  the  high  dome  above  them.  They 
turned,  and  all  the  shining  land  was  unrolled 
before  them;  the  white  houses  were  bright  in  the 

85 


The  Secret  Glory 

sunlight,  and  there,  far  away,  was  the  yellow  sea 
and  the  two  islands,  and  the  coasts  beyond. 

Nicholas  Meyrick  pointed  out  a  tuft  of  trees  on 
a  hill  a  long  way  off  and  told  his  son  that  the 
Wern  was  hidden  beyond  it;  and  then  they  began 
to  climb  once  more,  till  they  came  at  last  to  the 
line  where  the  fields  and  hedges  ended,  and  above 
there  was  only  the  wild  mountain  land.  And  on 
this  verge  stood  an  old  farmhouse  with  strong; 
walls,  set  into  the  rock,  sheltered  a  little  from 
the  winds  by  a  line  of  twisted  beeches.  The  walls 
of  the  house  were  gleaming  white,  and  by  the 
porch  there  was  a  shrub  covered  with  bright  yel- 
low flowers.  Mr.  Meyrick  beat  upon  the  oak 
door,  painted  black  and  studded  with  heavy  nails. 
An  old  man,  dressed  like  a  farmer,  opened  it,  and 
Ambrose  noticed  that  his  father  spoke  to  him  with 
something  of  reverence  in  his  voice,  as  if  he  were 
some  very  great  person.  They  sat  down  in  a 
long  room,  but  dimly  lighted  by  the  thick  greenish 
glass  in  the  quarried  window,  and  presently  the 
old  farmer  set  a  great  jug  of  beer  before  them. 
They  both  drank  heartily  enough,  and  Mr.  Mey- 
rick said: 

"Aren't  you  about  the  last  to  brew  your  own 
beer,  Mr.  Cradock?" 

"Iss;  I  be  the  last  of  all.  They  do  all  like  the 
muck  the  brewer  sends  better  than  cwrw  dda." 

86 


The  Secret  Glory 

"The  whole  world  likes  muck  better  than  good 
drink,  now." 

"You  be  right,  Sir.  Old  days  and  old  ways 
of  our  fathers,  they  be  gone  for  ever.  There  was 
a  blasted  preacher  down  at  the  chapel  a  week 
or  two  ago,  saying — so  they  do  tell  me — that  they 
would  all  be  damned  to  hell  unless  they  took  to 
ginger-beer  directly.  Iss  indeed  now;  and  I 
heard  that  he  should  say  that  a  man  could  do  a 
better  day's  work  on  that  rot-belly  stuff  than  on 
good  beer.  Wass  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  liarr 
as  that?" 

The  old  man  was  furious  at  the  thought  of  these 
infamies  and  follies;  his  esses  hissed  through  his 
teeth  and  his  r's  rolled  out  with  fierce  emphasis. 
|Mr.  Meyrick  nodded  his  approval  of  this  indig- 
nation. 

"We  have  what  we  deserve,"  he  said.  "False 
preachers,  bad  drink,  the  talk  of  fools  all  the  day 
long — even  on  the  mountain.  What  is  it  like,  do 
you  think,  in  London?" 

There  fell  a  silence  in  the  long,  dark  room. 
They  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the 
beech  trees,  and  Ambrose  saw  how  the  boughs 
were  tossed  to  and  fro,  and  he  thought  of  what  it 
must  be  like  in  winter  nights,  here,  high  upon 
the  Great  Mountain,  when  the  storms  swept  up 
from  the  sea,  or  descended  from  the  wilds  of  the 

87 


The  Secret  Glory 

north;  when  the  shafts  of  rain  were  like  the  onset 
of  an  army,  and  the  winds  screamed  about  the 
walls. 

"May  we  see  It?"  said  Mr.  Meyrick  suddenly. 

"I  did  think  you  had  come  for  that.  There  be 
very  few  now  that  remember." 

He  went  out,  and  returned  carrying  a  bunch  of 
keys.  Then  he  opened  a  door  in  the  room  and 
warned  "the  young  master"  to  take  care  of  the 
steps.  Ambrose,  indeed,  could  scarcely  see  the 
way.  His  father  led  him  down  a  short  flight  of 
uneven  stone  steps,  and  they  were  in  a  room 
which  seemed  at  first  quite  dark,  for  the  only 
light  came  from  a  narrow  window  high  up  in  the 
wall,  and  across  the  glass  there  were  heavy  iron 
bars. 

Cradock  lit  two  tall  candles  of  yellow  wax  that 
stood  in  brass  candlesticks  on  a  table;  and,  as 
the  flame  grew  clear,  Ambrose  saw  that  he  was 
opening  a  sort  of  aumbry  constructed  in  the 
thickness  of  the  wall.  The  door  was  a  great  slab 
of  solid  oak,  three  or  four  inches  thick — as  one 
could  see  when  it  was  opened — and  from  the  dark 
place  within  the  farmer  took  an  iron  box  and  set 
it  carefully  upon  the  floor,  Mr.  Meyrick  helping 
him.  They  were  strong  men,  but  they  staggered 
under  the  weight  of  the  chest;  the  iron  seemed 
as  thick  as  the  door  of  the  cupboard  from  which 
it  was  taken,  and  the  heavy,  antique  lock  yielded, 


The  Secret  Glory 

with  a  grating  scream,  to  the  key.  Inside  it  there 
was  another  box  of  some  reddish  metal,  which, 
again,  held  a  case  of  wood  black  with  age;  and 
from  this,  with  reverent  hands,  the  farmer  drew 
out  a  veiled  and  splendid  cup  and  set  it  on  the 
table  between  the  two  candles.  It  was  a  bowl- 
like  vessel  of  the  most  wonderful  workmanship, 
standing  on  a  short  stem.  All  the  hues  of  the 
world  were  mingled  on  it,  all  the  jewels  of  the 
regions  seemed  to  shine  from  it;  and  the  stem 
and  foot  were  encrusted  with  work  in  enamel, 
of  strange  and  magical  colours  that  shone  and 
dimmed  with  alternating  radiance,  that  glowed 
with  red  fires  and  pale  glories,  with  the  blue  of 
the  far  sky,  the  green  of  the  faery  seas,  and  the 
argent  gleam  of  the  evening  star.  But  before 
Ambrose  had  gazed  more  than  a  moment  he 
heard  the  old  man  say,  in  pure  Welsh,  not  in 
broken  English,  in  a  resonant  and  chanting  voice : 

"Let  us  fall  down  and  adore  the  marvellous 
and  venerable  work  of  the  Lord  God  Almighty." 

To  which  his  father  responded: 

"Agyos,  Agyos,  Agyos.  Mighty  and  glorious 
is  the  Lord  God  Almighty,  in  all  His  works  and 
wonderful  operations^  Curiluson,  Curiluson, 
Curiluson." 

They  knelt  down,  Cradock  in  the  midst,  before 
the  cup,  and  Ambrose  and  his  father  on  either 
hand.  The  holy  vessel  gleamed  before  the  boy's 


The  Secret  Glory 

eyes,  and  he  saw  clearly  its  wonder  and  its  beauty. 
All  its  surface  was  a  marvel  of  the  most  delicate 
intertwining  lines  in  gold  and  silver,  in  copper 
and  in  bronze,  in  all  manner  of  metals  and  alloys; 
and  these  interlacing  patterns  in  their  brightness, 
in  the  strangeness  of  their  imagery  and  ornament, 
seemed  to  enthral  his  eyes  and  capture  them,  as 
it  were,  in  a  maze  of  enchantment;  and  not  only 
the  eyes;  for  the  very  spirit  was  rapt  and  gar- 
nered into  that  far  bright  world  whence  the  holy 
magic  of  the  cup  proceeded.  Among  the  preci- 
ous stones  which  were  set  into  the  wonder  was  a 
great  crystal,  shining  with  the  pure  light  of  the 
moon;  about  the  rim  of  it  there  was  the  appear- 
ance of  faint  and  feathery  clouds,  but  in  the 
centre  it  was  a  white  splendour;  and  as  Ambrose 
gazed  he  thought  that  from  the  heart  of  this 
jewel  there  streamed  continually  a  shower  of  glit- 
tering stars,  dazzling  his  eyes  with  their  incessant 
motion  and  brightness.  His  body  thrilled  with  a 
sudden  ineffable  rapture,  his  breath  came  and  went 
in  quick  pantings;  bliss  possessed  him  utterly  as 
the  three  crowned  forms  passed  in  their  golden 
order.  Then  the  interwoven  sorcery  of  the  ves- 
sel became  a  ringing  wood  of  golden,  and  bronze, 
and  silver  trees;  from  every  side  resounded  the 
clear  summons  of  the  holy  bells  and  the  exultant 
song  of  the  faery  birds;  he  no  longer  heard  the 
low-chanting  voices  of  Cradock  and  his  father  as 

90 


The  Secret  Glory 

they  replied  to  one  another  in  the  forms  of  some 
antique  liturgy.  Then  he  stood  by  a  wild  sea- 
shore; it  was  a  dark  night,  and  there  was  a 
shrilling  wind  that  sang  about  the  peaks  of  the 
sharp  rock,  answering  to  the  deep  voices  of  the 
heaving  sea.  A  white  moon,  of  fourteen  days 
old,  appeared  for  a  moment  in  the  rift  between 
two  vast  black  clouds,  and  the  shaft  of  light 
showed  all  the  savage  desolation  of  the  shore — 
cliffs  that  rose  up  into  mountains,  into  crenellated 
heights  that  were  incredible,  whose  bases  were 
scourged  by  the  torrents  of  hissing  foam  that  were 
driven  against  them  from  the  hollow-sounding  sea. 
Then,  on  the  highest  of  those  awful  heights, 
Ambrose  became  aware  of  walls  and  spires,  of 
towers  and  battlements  that  must  have  touched 
the  stars;  and,  in  the  midst  of  this  great  castle, 
there  surged  up  the  aspiring  vault  of  a  yast 
church,  and  all  its  windows  were  ablaze  with  a 
light  so  white  and  glorious  that  it  was  as  if  every 
pane  were  a  diamond.  And  he  heard  the  voices 
of  a  praising  host,  or  the  clamour  of  golden 
trumpets  and  the  unceasing  choir  of  the  angels. 
And  he  knew  that  this  place  was  the  Sovereign 
Perpetual  Choir,  Corarbennic,  into  whose  secret 
the  deadly  flesh  may  scarcely  enter.  But  in  the 
vision  he  lay  breathless,  on  the  floor  before  the 
gleaming  wall  of  the  sanctuary,  while  the  shadows 
of  the  hierurgy  were  enacted;  and  it  seemed  to 

91 


The  Secret  Glory 

him  that,  for  a  moment  of  time,  he  saw  in  un- 
endurable light  the  Mystery  of  Mysteries  pass 
veiled  before  him,  and  the  Image  of  the  Slain  and 
Risen. 

For  a  brief  while  this  dream  was  broken.  He 
heard  his  father  singing  softly: 

"Gogoniant  y  Tad  ac  y  Mab  ac  yr  Yspryd 
Glan." 

And  the  old  man  answered : 

"Agya  Trias  eleeson  ymas." 

Then  again  his  spirit  was  lost  in  the  bright 
depths  of  the  crystal,  and  he  saw  the  ships  of  the 
saints,  without  oar  or  sail,  afloat  on  the  faery  sea, 
seeking  the  Glassy  Isle.  All  the  whole  company 
of  the  Blessed  Saints  of  the  Isle  of  Britain  sailed 
on  the  adventure;  dawn  and  sunset,  night  and 
morning,  their  illuminated  faces  never  wavered; 
and  Ambrose  thought  that  at  last  they  saw  bright 
shores  in  the  dying  light  of  a  red  sun,  and  there 
came  to  their  nostrils  the  scent  of  the  deep  apple- 
garths  in  Avalon,  and  odours  of  Paradise. 

When  he  finally  returned  to  the  presence  of 
earthly  things  he  was  standing  by  his  father; 
while  Cradock  reverently  wrapped  the  cup  in  the 
gleaming  veils  which  covered  it,  saying  as  he  did 
so,  in  Welsh: 

"Remain  in  peace,  O  holy  and  divine  cup  of 
the  Lord.  Henceforth  I  know  not  whether  I 

92 


The  Secret  Glory 

shall  return  to  thee  or  not;  but  may  the  Lord 
vouchsafe  me  to  see  thee  in  the  Church  of  the 
Firstborn  which  is  in  Heaven,  on  the  Altar  of  the 
Sacrifice  which  is  from  age  unto  ages." 

Ambrose  went  up  the  steps  and  out  into  the 
sunshine  on  the  mountain  side  with  the  bewilder- 
ment of  strange  dreams,  as  a  coloured  mist,  about 
him.  He  saw  the  old  white  walls,  the  yellow 
blossoms  by  the  porch;  above,  the  wild,  high 
mountain  wall;  and,  below,  all  the  dear  land  of 
Gwent,  happy  in  the  summer  air,  all  its  woods 
and  fields,  its  rolling  hills  and  its  salt  verge,  rich 
in  a  golden  peace.  Beside  him  the  cold  water 
swelled  from  the  earth  and  trickled  from  the  grey 
rock,  and  high  in  the  air  an  exultant  lark  was 
singing.  The  mountain  breeze  was  full  of  life 
and  gladness,  and  the  rustling  and  tossing  of  the 
woods,  the  glint  and  glimmer  of  the  leaves  be- 
neath, made  one  think  that  the  trees,  with  every 
creature,  were  merry  on  that  day.  And  in  that 
dark  cell  beneath  many  locks,  beneath  wood  and 
iron,  concealed  in  golden,  glittering  veils,  lay 
ihidden  that  glorious  and  awful  cup,  glass  of 
wonderful  vision,  portal  and  'entrance  of  the 
Spiritual  Place. 

His  father  explained  to  him  something  of  that 
which  he  had  seen.  He  told  him  that  the  vessel 
was  the  Holy  Cup  of  Teilo  sant,  which  he  was 
said  to  have  received  from  the  Lord  in  the  state 

93 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  Paradise,  and  that  when  Teilo  said  Mass,  using 
that  Chalice,  the  choir  of  angels  was  present 
visibly;  that  it  was  a  cup  of  wonders  and  mys- 
teries, the  bestower  of  visions  and  heavenly 
graces. 

"But  whatever  you  do,"  he  said,  "do  not  speak 
to  anyone  of  what  you  have  seen  to-day,  because 
if  you  do  the  mystery  will  be  laughed  at  and 
blasphemed.  D'o  you  know  that  your  uncle  and 
aunt  at  Lupton  would  say  that  we  were  all  mad 
together?  That  is  because  they  are  fools,  and 
in  these  days  most  people  are  fools,  and  malignant 
fools  too,  as  you  will  find  out  for  yourself  before 
you  are  much  older.  So  always  remember  that 
you  must  hide  the  secrets  that  you  have  seen; 
and  if  you  do  not  do  so  you  will  be  sorry." 

Mr.  Meyrick  told  his  son  why  old  Cradock  was 
to  be  treated  with  respect — indeed,  with  rever- 
ence. 

"He  is  just  what  he  looks,"  he  said,  "an  old 
farmer  with  a  small  freehold  up  here  on  the 
mountain  side;  and,  as  you  heard,  his  English 
is  no  better  than  that  of  any  other  farmer  in  this 
country.  And,  compared  with  Cradock,  the 
Duke  of  Norfolk  is  a  man  of  yesterday.  He  is 
of  the  tribe  of  Teilo  the  Saint;  he  is  the  last,  in 
direct  descent,  of  the  hereditary  keepers  of  the 
holy  cup;  and  his  race  has  guarded  that  blessed 
relic  for  thirteen  hundred  years.  Remember, 

94 


again,  that  to-day,  on  this  mountain,  you  have  seen 
great  marvels  which  you  must  keep  in  silence." 

Poor  Ambrose !  He  suffered  afterwards  for 
his  forgetfulness  of  his  father's  injunction.  Soon 
after  he  went  to  Lupton  one  of  the  boys  was 
astonishing  his  friends  with  a  brilliant  account  of 
the  Crown  jewels,  which  he  had  viewed  during 
the  Christmas  holidays.  Everybody  was  deeply 
impressed,  and  young  Meyrick,  anxious  to  be 
agreeable  in  his  turn,  began  to  tell  about  the 
wonderful  cup  that  he  had  once  seen  in  an  old 
farmhouse.  Perhaps  his  manner  was  not  convinc- 
ing, for  the  boys  shrieked  with  laughter  over 
his  description.  A  monitor  who  was  passing 
asked  to  hear  the  joke,  and,  having  been  told  the 
tale,  clouted  Ambrose  over  the  head  for  an  in- 
fernal young  liar.  This  was  a  good  lesson,  and 
it  served  Ambrose  in  good  stead  when  one  of  the 
masters  having,  somehow  or  other,  heard  the 
story,  congratulated  him  in  the  most  approved 
scholastic  manner  before  the  whole  form  on  his 
wonderful  imaginative  gifts. 

"I  see  the  budding  novelist  in  you,  Meyrick," 
said  this  sly  master.  uBesant  and  Rice  will  be 
nowhere  when  you  once  begin.  I  suppose  you  are 
studying  character  just  at  present?  Let  us  down 
gently,  won't  you?  [To  the  delighted  form.] 
We  must  be  careful,  mustn't  we,  how  we  behave? 
'A  chiel's  amang  us  takin'  notes,'  "'  etc.  etc. 

95 


The  Secret  Glory 

But  Meyrick  held  his  tongue.  He  did  not  tell 
his  form  master  that  he  was  a  beast,  a  fool  and  a 
coward,  since  he  had  found  out  that  the  truth, 
like  many  precious  things,  must  often  be  con- 
cealed from  the  profane.  A  late  vengeance  over- 
took that  foolish  master.  Long  years  after,  he 
was  dining  at  a  popular  London  restaurant,  and 
all  through  dinner  he  had  delighted  the  ladies  of 
his  party  by  the  artful  mixture  of  brutal  insolence 
and  vulgar  chaff  with  which  he  had  treated  one 
of  the  waiters,  a  humble-looking  little  Italian. 
The  master  was  in  the  highest  spirits  at  the 
success  of  his  persiflage;  his  voice  rose  louder  and 
louder,  and  his  offensiveness  became  almost  super- 
naturally  acute.  And  then  he  received  a  heavy 
earthen  casserole,  six  quails,  a  few  small  onions 
and  a  quantity  of  savoury  but  boiling  juices  full 
in  the  face.  The  waiter  was  a  Neapolitan. 

The  hours  of  the  night  passed  on,  as  Ambrose 
sat  in  his  bedroom  at  the  Old  Grange,  recalling 
many  wonderful  memories,  dreaming  his  dreams 
of  the  mysteries,  of  the  land  of  Gwent  and  the 
land  of  vision,  just  as  his  uncle,  but  a  few  yards 
away  in  another  room  of  the  house,  was  at  the 
same  time  rapt  into  the  world  of  imagination, 
seeing  the  new  Lupton  descending  like  a  bride 
from  the  heaven  of  headmasters.  But  Ambrose 
thought  of  the  Great  Mountain,  of  the  secret 
valleys,  of  the  sanctuaries  and  hallows  of  the 


The  Secret  Glory 

saints,  of  the  rich  carven  work  of  lonely  churches 
hidden  amongst  the  hills  and  woods.  There 
came  into  his  mind  the  fragment  of  an  old  poem 
which  he  loved  : 

"In  the  darkness  of  old  age  let  not  my  memory  fail, 
Let    me    not    forget    to   celebrate    the   beloved    land   of 

Gwent. 

If  they  imprison  me  in  a  deep  place,  in  a  house  of  pesti- 
lence, 
Still  shall  I  be  free,  when  I  remember  the  sunshine  upon 

Mynydd  Maen. 
There  have   I   listened  to   the  singing  of  the  lark,  my 

soul  has  ascended  with  the  song  of  the  little  bird; 
The   great   white   clouds   were   the  ships   of   my  spirit, 

sailing  to  the  haven  of  the  Almighty. 
Equally  to  be  held  in  honour  is  the  site  of  the  Great 

Mountain, 

Adorned  with  the  gushing  of  many  waters — 
Sweet  is  the  shade  of  its  hazel  thickets, 
There  a  treasure  is  preserved,  which  I  will  not  celebrate, 
It  is  glorious,  and  deeply  concealed. 
If  Teilo  should  return,  if  happiness  were  restored  to  the 

Cymri, 
Dewi  and  Dyfrig  should  serve  his  Mass;  then  a  great 

marvel  would  be  made  visible. 

0  blessed  and  miraculous  work,   then   should   my  bliss 

be  as  the  bliss  of  angels; 

1  had  rather  behold  this  Offering  than  kiss  the  twin  lips 

of  dark  Gwenllian. 
Dear  my  land  of  Gwent,  O  quam  dilecta  tabernacula! 

97 


The  Secret  Glory 

Thy  rivers  are  like  precious  golden  streams  of  Paradise, 
Thy  hills  are  as  the  Mount  Syon — 
Better  a  grave  on  Twyn  Barlwm  than  a  throne  in  the 
palace  of  the  Saxons  at  Caer-Ludd." 

And  then,  by  the  face  of  contrast,  he  thought 
of  the  first  verse  of  the  great  school  song, 
"Rocker,"  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  many  poems: 
which  his  uncle  had  consecrated  to  the  praise  of 
the  dear  old  school: 

"Once  on  a  time,  in  the  books  that  bore  me, 
I  read  that  in  olden  days  before  me 
Lupton  town  had  a  wonderful  game, 
It  was  a  game  with  a  noble  story 
(Lupton  town  was  then  in  its  glory, 
Kings  and  Bishops  had  brought  it  fame). 
It  was  a  game  that  you  all  must  know, 
And  'rocker'  they  called  it,  long  ago. 

Chorus. 

Look  out  for  'brooks,'  or  you're  sure  to  drown, 
Look  out  for  'quarries,'  or  else  you're  down — 
That  was  the  way 
'Rocker'  to  play — 
Once  on  a  day 
That  was  the  way, 
Once  on  a  day, 

That  was  the  way  that  they  used  to  play  in  Lupton 
town." 


The  Secret  Glory 

Thinking  of  the  two  songs,  he  put  out  his  light 
and,  wearied,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 


IV 

The  British  schoolboy,  considered  in  a  genial 
light  by  those  who  have  made  him  their  special 
study,  has  not  been  found  to  be  either  observant 
or  imaginative.  Or,  rather,  it  would  be  well  to 
say  that  his  powers  of  observation,  having  been 
highly  specialised  within  a  certain  limited  tract 
of  thought  and  experience  (bounded  mainly  by 
cricket  and  football),  are  but  faint  without  these 
bounds;  while  it  is  one  of  the  chief est  works  of 
the  System  to  kill,  destroy,  smash  and  bring  to 
nothing  any  powers  of  imagination  he  may  have 
originally  possessed.  For  if  this  were  not  done 
thoroughly,  neither  a  Conservative  nor  a  Liberal 
administration  would  be  possible,  the  House  of 
Commons  itself  would  cease  to  exist,  the  Episco- 
pus  (var.  Anglicanus)  would  go  the  way  of  the 
Great  Bustard;  a  "muddling  through  somehow" 
(which  must  have  been  the  brightest  jewel  in  the 
British  crown,  wrung  from  King  John  by  the 
barons)  would  become  a  lost  art.  And,  since  all 
these  consequences  would  be  clearly  intolerable, 
the  great  Public  Schools  have  perfected  a  very 
thorough  system  of  destroying  the  imaginative 

99 


The  Secret  Glory 

toxin,  and  few  cases  of  failure  have  been  so  far 
reported. 

Still,  there  are  facts  which  not  even  the  densest 
dullards,  the  most  complete  boobies,  can  help 
seeing;  and  a  good  many  of  the  boys  found  them- 
selves wondering  "what  was  the  matter  with 
Meyrick"  when  they  saw  him  at  Chapel  on  the 
Sunday  morning.  The  news  of  his  astounding 
violences  both  of  act  and  word  on  the  night 
before  had  not  yet  circulated  generally.  Bates 
was  attending  to  that  department,  but  hadn't  had 
time  to  do  much  so  far;  and  the  replies  of  Pelly 
and  Rawson  to  enquiries  after  black  eyes  and 
a  potato-like  nose  were  surly  and  misleading. 
Afterwards,  when  the  tale  was  told,  when  Bates, 
having  enlarged  the  incidents  to  folk-lore  size, 
showed  Pelly  lying  in  a  pool  of  his  own  blood, 
Rawson  screaming  as  with  the  torments  of  the 
lost  and  Meyrick  rolling  out  oaths — all  original 
and  all  terrible — for  the  space  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  then  indeed  the  school  was  satisfied;  it 
was  no  wonder  if  Meyrick  did  look  a  bit  queer 
after  the  achievement  of  such  an  adventure.  The 
funk  of  aforetime  had  found  courage;  the  air  of 
rapture  was  easily  understood.  It  is  probable 
that  if,  in  the  nature  of  things,  it  had  been 
possible  for  an  English  schoolboy  to  meet  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi,  the  boy  would  have  concluded 

100 


The  Secret  Glory 

that  the  saint  must  have  just  made  200  not  out 
in  first-class  cricket. 

But  Ambrose  walked  in  a  strange  light;  he 
had  been  admitted  into  worlds  undreamed  of, 
and  from  the  first  brightness  of  the  sun,  when  he 
awoke  in  the  morning  in  his  room  at  the  Grange, 
it  was  the  material  world  about  him,  the  walls  of 
stone  and  brick,  the  solid  earth,  the  sky  itself, 
and  the  people  who  talked  and  moved  and  seemed 
alive — these  were  things  of  vision,  unsubstantial 
shapes,  odd  and  broken  illusions  of  the  mind.  At 
half-past  seven  old  Toby,  the  man-of-all-work  at 
the  old  Grange  banged  at  his  door  and  let  his 
clean  boots  fall  with  a  crash  on  the  boards  after 
the  usual  fashion.  He  awoke,  sat  up  in  bed, 
staring  about  him.  But  what  was  this?  The 
four  walls  covered  with  a  foolish  speckled  paper, 
pale  blue  and  pale  brown,  the  white  ceiling,  the 
bare  boards  with  the  strip  of  carpet  by  the  bed- 
side :  he  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  He  was  not 
horrified,  because  he  knew  that  it  was  all  non- 
existent, some  plastic  fantasy  that  happened  to 
be  presented  for  the  moment  to  his  brain.  Even 
the  big  black  wooden  chest  that  held  his  books 
(Parker,  (despised  by  Horbury,  among  them) 
failed  to  appeal  to  him  with  any  sense  of  reality; 
and  the  bird's-eye  washstand  and  chest  of  drawers, 
the  white  water-jug  with  the  blue  band,  were  all 

IOI 


The  Secret  Glory 

frankly  phantasmal.  It  reminded  him  of  a  trick 
he  had  somtimes  played:  one  chose  one's  po- 
sition carefully,  shut  an  eye  and,  behold,  a  mean 
shed  could  be  made  to  obscure  the  view  of  a 
mountain!  So  these  walls  and  appurtenances 
made  an  illusory  sort  of  intrusion  into  the  true 
vision  on  which  he  gazed.  That  yellow  wash- 
stand  rising  out  of  the  shining  wells  of  the  undy- 
ing, the  speckled  walls  in  the  place  of  the  great 
mysteries,  a  chest  of  drawers  in  the  magic  garden 
of  roses — it  had  the  air  of  a  queer  joke,  and  he 
laughed  aloud  to  himself  as  he  realized  that  he 
alone  knew,  that  everybody  else  would  say,  "That 
is  a  white  jug  with  a  blue  band,"  while  he,  and  he 
only,  saw  the  marvel  and  glory  of  the  holy  cup 
with  its  glowing  metals,  its  interlacing  myriad 
lines,  its  wonderful  images,  and  its  hues  of  the 
mountain  and  the  stars,  of  the  green  wood  and 
the  faery  sea  where,  in  a  sure  haven,  anchor  the 
ships  that  are  bound  for  Avalon. 

For  he  had  a  certain  faith  that  he  had  found 
the  earthly  presentation  and  sacrament  of  the 
Eternal  Heavenly  Mystery. 

He  smiled  again,  with  the  quaint  smile  of  an 
angel  in  an  old  Italian  picture,  as  he  realized 
more  fully  the  strangeness  of  the  whole  position 
and  the  odd  humours  which  would  relieve  a  de- 
light it  would  be  to  "play  up"  at  rocker !  It  seemed 
was  to  play  a  wonderful  game  of  make-believe; 

102 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  speckled  walls,  for  instance,  were  not  really 
there,  but  he  was  to  behave  just  as  if  they  were 
solid  realities.  He  would  presently  rise  and  go 
through  an  odd  pantomine  of  washing  and  dress- 
ing, putting  on  brilliant  boots,  and  going  down 
to  various  mumbo-jumbo  ceremonies  called  break- 
fast, chapel  and  dinner,  in  the  company  of  appear- 
ances to  whom  he  would  accord  all  the  honours 
due  to  veritable  beings.  And  this  delicious 
phantasmagoria  would  go  on  and  on  day  after 
day,  he  alone  having  the  secret;  and  what  a  de- 
light it  wouldjfoe  to  "play  up"  at  rocker  !  It  sedmed 
to  him  that  the  solid-seeming  earth,  the  dear 
old  school  and  rocker  itself  had  all  been  made  to 
minister  to  the  acuteness  of  his  pleasure;  they 
were  the  darkness  that  made  the  light  visible, 
the  matter  through  which  form  was  manifested. 
For  the  moment  he  enclosed  in  the  most  secret 
place  of  his  soul  the  true  world  into  which  he 
had  been  guided;  and  as  he  dressed  he  hummed 
the  favourite  school  song,  "Never  mind!" 

"If  the  umpire  calls  'out'  at  your  poor  second  over, 
If  none  of  your  hits  ever  turns  out  a  'rover,' 
If  you  fumble  your  fives  and  'go  rot'  over  sticker, 
If  every  hound  is  a  little  bit  quicker; 
If  you  can't  tackle  rocker  at  all,  not  at  all, 
And  kick  at  the  moon  when  you  try  for  the  ball, 

Never  mind,  never  mind,  never  mind — if  you  fall, 
Dick  falls  before  rising,  Tom's  short  ere  he's  tall, 

103 


The  Secret  Glory 

Never  mind! 

Don't  be  one  of  the  weakest  who  go  to  the  wall: 
Never  mind!" 

Ambrose  could  not  understand  how  Columbus 
could  have  blundered  so  grossly.  Somehow  or 
other  he  should  have  contrived  to  rid  himself  of 
his  crew;  he  should  have  returned  alone,  with  a 
dismal  tale  of  failure,  and  passed  the  rest  of  his 
days  as  that  sad  and  sorry  charlatan  who  had 
misled  the  world  with  his  mad  whimsies  of  a  con- 
tinent beyond  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic.  If  he 
had  been  given  wisdom  to  do  this,  how  great — 
how  wonderful  would  his  joys  have  been !  They 
would  have  pointed  at  him  as  he  paced  the  streets 
in  his  shabby  cloak;  the  boys  would  have  sung 
songs  about  him  and  his  madness;  the  great 
people  would  have  laughed  contemptuously  as  he 
went  by.  And  he  would  have  seen  in  his  heart 
all  that  vast  far  world  of  the  west,  the  rich  islands 
barred  by  roaring  surf,  a  whole  hemisphere  of 
strange  regions  and  strange  people;  he  would 
have  known  that  he  alone  possessed  the  secret  of 
it.  But,  after  all,  Ambrose  knew  that  his  was  a 
greater  joy  even  than  this;  for  the  world  that  he 
had  discovered  was  not  far  across  the  seas,  but 
within  him. 

Pelly  stared  straight  jbefore  him  in  savage 
silence  all  through  breakfast;  he  was  convinced 
that  mere  hazard  had  guided  that  crushing  blow, 

104 


The  Secret  Glory 

and  he  was  meditating  schemes  of  complete 
and  exemplary  vengeance.  He  noticed  nothing 
strange  about  Meyrick,  nor  would  he  have  cared 
if  he  had  seen  the  images  of  the  fairies  in  his  eyes. 
Rawson,  on  the  other  hand,  was  full  of  genial 
civility  and  good  fellowship;  it  was  "old  chap" 
and  "old  fellow"  every  other  word.  But  he  was 
far  from  unintelligent,  and,  as  he  slyly  watched 
Meyrick,  he  saw  that  there  was  something  alto- 
gether unaccustomed  and  incomprehensible.  Un- 
known lights  burned  and  shone  in  the  eyes,  re- 
flections of  one  knew  not  what;  the  expression 
was  altered  in  some  queer  way  that  he  could  not 
understand.  Meyrick  had  always  been  a  rather 
ugly,  dogged-looking  fellow;  his  black  hair  and 
something  that  was  not  usual  in  the  set  of  his 
features  gave  him  an  exotic,  almost  an  Oriental 
appearance;  hence  a  story  of  Rawson's  to  the 
effect  that  Meyrick's  mother  was  a  nigger  woman 
in  poor  circumstances  and  of  indifferent  morality 
had  struck  the  school  as  plausible  enough. 

But  now  the  grimness  of  the  rugged  features 
seemed  abolished;  the  face  shone,  as  it  were,  with 
the  light  of  a  flame — but  a  flame  of  what  fire? 
Rawson,  who  would  not  have  put  his  observations 
into  such  terms,  drew  his  own  conclusions  readily 
enough  and  imparted  them  to  Pelly  after  Chapel. 

"Look  'here,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "did  you 
notice  young  Meyrick  at  breakfast?" 

105 


The  Secret  Glory 

Pelly  simply  blasted  Meyrick  and  announced  his 
intention  of  giving  him  the  worst  thrashing  he 
had  ever  had  at  an  early  date. 

"Don't  you  try  it  on,"  said  Rawson.  "I  had 
my  eye  on  him  all  the  time.  He  didn't  see  I  was 
spotting  him.  He's  cracked;  he's  dangerous.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  were  in  a  strait  waistcoat 
in  the  County  Lunatic  Asylum  in  a  week's  time. 
My  governor  had  a  lot  to  do  with  lunatics,  and 
he  always  says  he  can  tell  by  the  eyes.  I'll  swear 
Meyrick  is  raging  mad." 

"Oh,  rot!"  said  Pelly.  "What  do  you  know 
about  it?" 

"Well,  look  out,  old  chap,  and  don't  say  I 
didn't  give  you  the  tip.  Of  course,  you  know  a 
maniac  ^is  stronger  than  three  ordinary  men? 
The  only  thing  is  to  get  them  down  and  crack 
their  ribs.  But  you  want  at  least  half  a  dozen 
men  before  you  can  do  it." 

"Oh,  shut  up  I" 

So  Rawson  said  no  more,  remaining  quite  sure 
that  he  had  diagnosed  Ambrose's  symptoms  cor- 
rectly. He  waited  for  the  catastrophe  with  a 
dreadful  joy,  wondering  whether  Meyrick  would 
begin  by  cutting  old  Horbury's  throat  with  his 
own  razor,  or  whether  he  would  rather  steal  into 
Felly's  room  at  night  and  tear  him  limb  from 
limb,  a  feat  which,  as  a  madman,  he  could,  of 
course,  accomplish  with  perfect  ease.  As  a  mat- 

106 


The  Secret  Glory 

ter  of  fact,  neither  of  these  events  happened. 
•'Pelly,  a  boy  of  the  bulldog  breed,  smacked  Am- 
brose's face  a  day  or  two  later  before  a  huge 
crowd  of  boys,  and  received  in  return  such  a 
terrific  blow  under  the  left  ear  that  a  formal  fight 
in  the  Tom  Brown  manner  was  out  of  the  question. 

Pelly  reached  the  ground  and  stayed  there  in 
an  unconscious  state  for  some  while;  and  the 
other  boys  determined  that  it  would  be  as  well  to 
leave  Meyrick  to  himself.  He  might  be  cracked 
but  he  was  undoubtedly  a  hard  hitter.  As  for 
Pelly,  like  the  sensible  fellow  that  he  was,  he 
simply  concluded  that  Meyrick  was  too  good  for 
him.  He  did  not  quite  understand  it;  he  dimly 
suspected  the  intrusion  of  some  strange  forces, 
but  with  such  things  he  had  nothing  to  do.  It 
was  a  fair  knock-out,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

Bates  had  glanced  up  as  Ambrose  came  into  the 
dining-room  on  the  Sunday  morning.  He  saw 
the  shining  face,  the  rapturous  eyes,  and  had 
silently  wondered,  recognising  the  presence  of 
elements  which  transcended  all  his  calculations. 

Meanwhile  the  Lupton  Sunday  went  on  after 
its  customary  fashion.  At  eleven  o'clock  the 
Chapel  was  full  of  boys.  There  were  nearly  six 
hundred  of  them  there,  the  big  ones  in  frock- 
coats,  with  high,  pointed  collars,  which  made 
them  look  like  youthful  Gladstones.  The 
younger  boys  wore  broad,  turn-down  collars  and 

107 


The  Secret  Glory 

had  short,  square  jackets  made  somewhat  in  the 
Basque  fashion.  Young  and  old  had  their  hair 
cut  close  to  the  scalp,  and  this  gave  them  all  a 
brisk  but  bullety  appearance.  The  masters,  in 
cassock,  gown  and  hood,  occupied  the  choir  stalls. 
Mr.  Horbury1,  the  High  Usher,  clothed  in  a 
flowing  surplice,  was  taking  Morning  Prayer, 
and  the  Head  occupied  a  kind  of  throne  by  the 
altar. 

The  Chapel  was  not  an  inspiring  building.  It 
was  the  fourteenth  century,  certainly,  but  the 
fourteenth  century  translated  by  1840,  and,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  sadly  betrayed  by  the  translators. 
The  tracery  of  the  windows  was  poor  and  shal- 
low; the  mouldings  of  the  piers  and  arches  faulty 
to  a  degree ;  the  chancel  was  absurdly  out  of  pro- 
portion, and  the  pitch-pine  benches  and  stalls  had 
a  sticky  look.  There  was  a  stained-glass  win- 
dow in  memory  of  the  Old  Luptonians  who  fell 
in  the  Crimea.  One  wondered  what  the  Woman 
of  Samaria  by  the  Well  had  to  do  either  with 
Lupton  or  the  Crimea.  And  the  colouring  was 
like  that  used  in  very  common,  cheap  sweets. 

The  service  went  with  a  rush.  The  prayers, 
versicles  and  responses,  and  psalms  were  said,  the 
officiant  and  the  congregation  father  pressing 
than  pausing — often,  indeed,  coming  so  swiftly 
to  cues  that  two  or  three  words  at  the  end  of 
one  verse  or  two  or  three  at  the  beginning  of 

108 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  next  would  be  lost  in  a  confused  noise  of  con- 
tending voices.  But  Venite  and  Te  Deum  and 
Benedictus  were  rattled  off  to  frisky  Anglicans 
with  great  spirit;  sometimes  the  organ  tooted, 
sometimes  it  bleated  gently,  like  a  flock  of  sheep; 
now  one  might  have  sworn  that  the  music  of  penny 
whistles  stole  on  the  ear,  and  again,  as  the  or- 
ganist coupled  up  the  full  organ,  using  suddenly 
all  the  battery  of  his  stops,  a  gas  explosion  and 
a  Salvation  Army  band  seemed  to  strive  against 
one  another.  A  well-known  nobleman  who  had 
been  to  Chapel  at  Lupton  was  heard  to  say,  with 
reference  to  this  experience:  "I  am  no  Ritualist, 
heaven  knows — but  I  confess  $  like  a  hearty 
service." 

But  it  was,  above  all,  the  sermon  that  has 
made  the  Chapel  a  place  of  many  memories. 
The  Old  Boys  say — and  one  supposes  that  they 
are  in  earnest — that  the  tall,  dignified  figure  of 
the  Doctor,  standing  high  above  them  all,  his 
scarlet  hood  making  a  brilliant  splash  of  colour 
against  the  dingy,  bilious  paint  of  the  pale  green 
walls,  has  been  an  inspiration  to  them  in  all 
quarters  of  the  globe,  in  all  manner  of  difficulties 
and  temptations. 

One  man  writes  that  in  the  midst  of  a  compli- 
cated and  dangerous  deal  on  the  Stock  Exchange 
he  remembered  a  sermon  of  Dr.  Chesson's  called 
in  the  printed  volume,  "Fighting  the  Good  Fight." 

109 


The  Secret  Glory 

"You  have  a  phrase  amongst  you  which  I 
often  hear,"  said  the  Head.  "That  phrase  is 
'Play  the  game,'  and  I  wish  to  say  that,  though 
you  know  it  not ;  though,  it  may  be,  the  words  are 
often  spoken  half  in  jest;  still,  they  are  but  your 
modern,  boyish  rendering  of  the  old,  stirring 
message  which  I  have  just  read  to  you. 

"  Tight  the  Good  Fight.'  'Play  the  Game.' 
Remember  the  words  in  the  storm  and  struggle, 
the  anxiety  and  stress  that  may  be — nay,  must 
be — before  you — etc.,  etc.,  etc." 

"After  the  crisis  was  over,"  wrote  the  Stock 
Exchange  man,  "I  was  thankful  that  I  had  re- 
membered those  words." 

"That  voice  sounding  like  a  trumpet  on  the 
battle-field,  bidding  us  all  remember  that  Success 

was  the  prize  of  Effort  and  Endurance "  So 

writes  a  well-known  journalist. 

"I  remembered  what  the  Doctor  said  to  us 
once  about  'running  the  race,'  "  says  a  young 
soldier,  recounting  a  narrow  escape  from  a  fierce 
enemy,  "so  I  stuck  to  my  orders." 

Ambrose,  on  that  Sunday  morning,  sat  in  his 
place,  relishing  acutely  all  the  savours  of  the 
scene,  consumed  with  inward  mirth  at  the  thought 
that  this  also  professed  to  be  a  rite  of  religion. 
There  was  an  aimless  and  flighty  merriment  about 
the  chant  to  the  Te  Deum  that  made  it  difficult 
for  him  to  control  his  laughter;  am}  when  he 

IIO 


The  Secret  Glory 

ijoined  in  the  hymn  "Pleasant  are  Thy  courts 
above,"  there  was  an  odd  choke  in  his  voice  that 
made  the  boy  next  to  him  shuffle  uneasily. 

But  the  sermon! 

It  will  be  found  on  page  125  of  the  Lupton 
Sermons.  It  dealt  with  the  Parable  of  the  Tal- 
ents; and  showed  the  boys  in  what  the  sin  of  the 
man  who  concealed  his  Talent  really  consisted. 

"I  daresay,"  said  the  Head,  "that  many  of  the 
older  amongst  you  have  wondered  what  this  man's 
sin  really  was.  You  may  have  read  your  Greek 
Testaments  carefully,  and  then  have  tried  to  form 
in  your  minds  some  analogy  to  the  circumstances 
of  the  parable — and  it  would  not  surprise  me  if 
you  were  to  tell  me  that  you  had  failed. 

"  'What  manner  of  man  was  this?  I  can 
imagine  your  saying  one  to  another.  I  shall  not 
be  astonished  if  you  confess  that,  for  you  at  least, 
the  question  seems  unanswerable. 

"Yes;  Unanswerable  to  you.  For  you  are 
English  boys,  the  sons  of  English  gentlemen,  to 
whom  the  atmosphere  of  casuistry,  of  conceal- 
ment, of  subtlety,  is  unknown;  by  whom  such 
an  atmosphere  would  be  rejected  with  scorn. 
You  come  from  homes  where  there  is  no  shadow, 
no  dark  corner  which  must  not  be  pried  into. 
Your  relations  and  your  friends  are  not  of  those 
who  hide  their  gifts  from  the  light  of  day.  Some 
of  you,  perhaps,  have  had  the  privilege  of  listen- 

III 


The  Secret  Glory 

ing  to  the  talk  of  one  or  other  of  the  great  states- 
men who  guide  the  doctrines  of  this  vast  Empire. 
You  will  have  observed,  I  am  sure,  that  in  the 
world  of  politics  there  is  no  vain  simulation  of 
modesty,  no  feigned  reluctance  to  speak  of  worthy 
achievement.  All  of  you  are  members  of  this 
great  community,  of  which  each  one  of  us  is  so 
proud,  which  we  think  of  as  the  great  inspiration 
and  motive  force  of  our  lives.  Here,  you  will 
say,  there  are  no  Hidden  Talents,  for  the  note  of 
the  English  Public  School  (thank  God  for  it!)  is 
openness,  frankness,  healthy  emulation;  each  en- 
deavouring to  do  his  best  for  the  good  of  all.  In 
our  studies  and  in  our  games  each  desires  to  excel,: 
to  carry  off  the  prize.  We  strive  for  a  corrupt- 
ible crown,  thinking  that  this,  after  all,  is  the 
surest  discipline  for  the  crown  that  is  incorrupt- 
ible. If  a  man  say  that  he  loveth  God  whom  he 
hath  not  seen,  and  love  not  his  brother  whom  he 
hath  seen !  Let  your  light  shine  before  men.  Be 
sure  that  we  shall  never  win  Heaven  by  despis- 
ing earth. 

"Yet  that  man  hid  his  Talent  in  a  napkin. 
What  does  the  story  mean?  What  message  has 
it  for  us  to-day? 

"I  will  tell  you. 

"Some  years  ago  during  our  summer  holidays 
I  was  on  a  walking  tour  in  a  mountainous  district 
in  the  north  of  England.  The  sky  was  of  a  most 

112 


The  Secret  Glory 

brilliant  blue,  the  sun  poured,  as  it  were,  a  gospel 
of  gladness  on  the  earth.  Towards  the  close  of 
the  day  I  was  entering  a  peaceful  and  beautiful 
valley  amongst  the  hills,  when  three  sullen  notes 
of  a  bell  came  down  the  breeze  towards  me. 
There  was  a  pause.  Again  the  three  strokes,  and 
for  a  third  time  this  dismal  summons  struck  my 
ears.  I  walked  on  in  the  direction  of  the  sound, 
wondering  whence  it  came  and  what  it  signified; 
and  soon  I  saw  before  me  a  great  pile  of  build- 
ings, surrounded  by  a  gloomy  and  lofty  wall. 

"It  was  a  Roman  Catholic  monastery.  The 
bell  was  ringing  the  Angelus,  as  it  is  called. 

"I  obtained  admittance  to  this  place  and  spoke 
to  some  of  the  unhappy  monks.  I  should  aston- 
ish you  if  I  mentioned  the  names  of  some  of  the 
deluded  men  who  had  immured  themselves  in  this 
prison-house.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  among 
them  were  a  soldier  who  had  won  distinction  on 
the  battle-field,  an  artist,  a  statesman  and  a 
physician  of  no  mean  repute. 

"Now  do  you  understand?  Ah!  a  day  will 
come — you  know,  I  think,  what  that  day  is  called 
— when  these  poor  men  will  have  to  answer  the 
question:  'Where  is  the  Talent  that  was  given 
to  you?' 

"  'W'here  was  your  sword  in  the  hour  of  your 
country's  danger?' 

"  'Where  was  your  picture,  your  consecration 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  your  art  to  the  service  of  morality  and  human- 
ity, when  the  doors  of  the  great  Exhibition  were 
thrown  open?' 

'  'Where  was  your  silver  eloquence,  your  voice 
of  persuasion,  when  the  strife  of  party  was  at  its 
fiercest?' 

;  'Where  was  your  God-given  skill  in  healing 
when  One  of  Royal  Blood  lay  fainting  on  the  bed 
of  dire — almost  mortal — sickness?' 

"And  the  answer?  'I  laid  it  up  in  a  napkin.' 
And  now,  etc.,  etc." 

Then  the  whole  six  hundred  boys  sang  "O 
^Paradise!  O  'Paradise!"  with  a  fe'rvou'r  and 
sincerity  that  were  irresistible.  The  organ  thun- 
dered till  the  bad  glass  shivered  and  rattled,  and 
the  service  was  over. 


Almost  the  last  words  that  Ambrose  had 
heard  after  his  wonderful  awaking  were  odd 
enough,  though  at  the  time  he  took  little  note 
of  them,  since  they  were  uttered  amidst 
passionate  embraces,  amidst  soft  kisses  on  his 
poor  beaten  flesh.  Indeed,  if  these  words  re- 
curred to  him  afterwards,  they  never  made  much 
impression  on  his  mind,  though  to  most  people 
they  would  seem  of  more  serious  import  than 

114 


The  Secret  Glory 

much  else  that  was  uttered  that  night!  The 
sentences  ran  something  like  this: 

"The  cruel,  wicked  brute!  He  shall  be  sorry 
all  his  days,  and  every  blow  shall  be  a  grief  to 
him,.  My  dear !  I  promise  you  he  shall  pay  for 
to-night  ten  times  over.  His  heart  shall  ache  for 
it  till  it  stops  beating." 

There  cannot  be  much  doubt  that  this  promise 
was  kept  to  the  letter.  No  one  knew  how  wicked 
rumours  concerning  Mr.  Horbury  got  abroad  in 
Lupton,  but  from  that  very  day  the  execution  of 
the  sentence  began.  In  the  evening  the  High 
Usher,  paying  a  visit  to  a  friend  in  town,  took  a 
short  cut  through  certain  dark,  ill-lighted  streets, 
and  was  suddenly  horrified  to  hear  his  name 
shrieked  out,  coupled  with  a  most  disgusting 
accusation.  His  heart  sank  down  in  his  breast; 
his  face,  he  knew,  was  bloodless;  and  then  he 
rushed  forward  to  the  malpassage  whence  the 
voice  seemed  to  proceed. 

There  was  nothing  there.  It  was  a  horrid 
little  alley,  leading  from  one  slum  to  another,  be- 
tween low  walls  and  waste  back-gardens,  dismal 
and  lampless.  Horbury  ran  at  top  speed  to  the 
end  of  it,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  A 
few  women  were  gossiping  at  their  doors,  a  couple 
of  men  slouched  past  on  their  way  to  the  beer- 
shop  at  the  corner — that  was  all.  He  asked  one 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  the  women  if  she  had  seen  anybody  running, 
and  she  said  no,  civilly  enough — and  yet  he  fan- 
cied that  she  had  leered  at  him. 

He  turned  and  went  back  home.  'He  was  not 
in  the  mood  for  paying  visits.  It  was  some  time 
before  he  could  compose  his  mind  by  assuring 
himself  that  the  incident,  though  unpleasant,  was 
not  of  the  slightest  significance.  But  from  what 
day  the  nets  were  about  his  feet,  and  his  fate  was 
sealed. 

Personally,  he  was  subjected  to  no  further 
annoyance,  and  soon  forgot  that  unpleasant  ex- 
perience in  the  back-street.  But  it  seems  certain 
that  from  that  Sunday  onwards  a  cloud  of 
calumny  overshadowed  the  High  Usher  in  all  his 
ways.  No  one  said  anything  definite,  but  every- 
one appeared  to  be  conscious  of  something  un- 
pleasant when  Horbury's  name  was  mentioned. 
People  looked  oddly  at  one  another,  and  the 
subject  was  changed. 

One  of  the  young  masters,  speaking  to  a  col- 
league, did  indeed  allude  casually  to  Horbury  as 
Xanthias  Phoceus.  The  other  master,  a  middle- 
aged  man,  raised  his  eyebrows  and  shook  his  head 
without  speaking.  It  is  understood  that  these 
muttered  slanders  were  various  in  their  nature; 
but,  as  has  been  said,  everything  was  indefinite, 
intangible  as  contagion — and  as  deadly  to  the 
master's  worldly  health. 

116 


The  Secret  Glory 

That  horrible  accusation  which  had  been 
screamed  out  of  the  alley  was  credited  by  some; 
others  agreed  with  the  young  master;  while  a 
few  had  a  terrible  story  of  an  idiot  girl  in  a  remote 
Derbyshire  village.  And  the  persistence  of  all 
these  fables  was  strange. 

It  was  four  years  before  Henry  Vibart  Chesson, 
D.  D.,  ascended  the  throne  of  St.  Guthmund  at 
Dorchester;  and  all  through  those  four  years  the 
fountain  of  evil  innuendo  rose  without  ceasing. 
It  is  doubtful  how  far  belief  in  the  truth  of  these 
scandals  was  firm  and  settled,  or  how  far  they 
were  in  the  main  uttered  and  circulated  by  ill- 
natured  people  who  disliked  Horbury,  but  did  not 
in  their  hearts  believe  him  guilty  of  worse  sins 
than  pompousness  and  arrogance.  The  latter  is 
the  more  probable  opinion. 

Of  course,  the  deliberations  of  the  Trustees 
were  absolutely  secret,  and  the  report  that  the 
iChairman,  the  Marquis  of  Dunham,  said  some- 
thing about  Caesar's  wife  is  a  report  and  nothing 
more.  It  is  evident  that  the  London  press  was 
absolutely  in  the  dark  as  to  the  existence  of  this 
strange  conspiracy  of  vengeance,  since  two  of  the 
chief  dailies  took  the  appointment  of  the  High 
Usher  to  the  Headmastership  as  a  foregone  con- 
clusion, prophesying,  indeed,  a  rule  of  phenom- 
enal success.  And  then  Millward,  a  Winchester 
man,  understood  to  be  rather  unsound  on  some 


The  Secret  Glory 

scholastic  matters — "not  quite  the  right  man"; 
"just  a  little  bit  of  a  Jesuit" — received  the 
appointment,  and  people  did  begin  to  say  that 
there  must  be  a  screw  loose  somewhere.  And 
Horbury  was  overwhelmed,  and  began  to  die. 

The  odd  thing  was  that,  save  on  that  Sunday 
night,  he  never  saw  the  enemy;  he  never  sus- 
pected that  there  was  an  enemy.  And  as  for  the 
incident  of  the  alley,  after  a  little  consideration 
he  treated  it  with  contempt.  It  was  only  some 
drunken  beast  in  the  town  who  knew  him  by  sight 
and  wished  to  be  offensive,  in  the  usual  fashion 
of  drunken  beasts. 

And  there  was  nothing  else.  Lupton  society 
was  much  too  careful  to  allow  its  suspicions  to 
be  known.  A  libel  action  meant,  anyhow,  a 
hideous  scandal  and  might  have  no  pleasant 
results  for  the  libellers.  Besides,  no  one  wanted 
to  offend  Horbury,  who  was  suspected  of  possess- 
ing a  revengeful  temper;  and  it  had  not  dawned 
on  the  Lupton  mind  that  the  rumours  they  them- 
selves were  circulating  would  eventually  ruin  the 
High  Usher's  chances  of  the  Headmastership. 
Each  gossip  heard,  as  it  were,  only  his  own  mutter 
at  the  moment.  He  did  not  realize  that  when  a 
great  many  people  are  muttering  all  at  once  an 
ugly  noise  of  considerable  volume  is  being  pro- 
duced. 

It  is  true  that  a  few  of  the  masters  were  some- 
118 


The  Secret  Glory 

what  cold  in  their  manner.  They  lacked  the 
social  gift  of  dissimulation,  and  could  not  help 
showing  their  want  of  cordiality.  But  Horbury, 
who  noticed  this,  put  it  down  to  envy  and  dis- 
affection, and  resolved  that  the  large  powers  given 
him  by  the  Trustees  should  not  be  in  vain  so  far 
as  the  masters  in  question  were  concerned. 

Indeed,  C.  L.  Wood,  who  was  afterwards 
Headmaster  of  Marcester  and  died  in  Egypt  a 
few  years  ago,  had  a  curious  story  which  in  part 
relates  to  the  masters  in  question,  and  perhaps 
throws  some  light  on  the  extraordinary  tale  of 
Horbury's  ruin. 

Wood  was  an  old  Luptonian.  He  was  a 
mighty  athlete  in  his  time,  and  his  records  for  the 
Long  Jump  and  Throwing  the  Cricket  Ball  have 
not  been  beaten  at  Lupton  to  this  day.  He  had 
been  one  of  the  first  boarders  taken  at  the  Old 
Grange.  The  early  relations  between  Horbury 
and  himself  had  been  continued  in  later  life,  and 
Wood  was  staying  with  his  former  master  at  the 
time  when  the  Trustee's  decision  was  announced. 
It  is  supposed,  indeed,  that  Horbury  had  offered 
him  a  kind  of  unofficial,  but  still  important,  po- 
sition in  the  New  Model;  in  fact,  Wood  confessed 
over  his  port  that  the  idea  was  that  he  should  be  a 
kind  of  "Intelligence  Department"  to  the  Head. 
He  did  not  seem  very  clear  as  to  the  exact  scope 
of  his  proposed  duties.  We  may  certainly  infer, 

119 


The  Secret  Glory 

however,  that  they  would  have  been  of  a  very 
confidential  nature,  for  Wood  had  jotted  down  his 
recollections  of  that  fatal  morning  somewhat  as 
follows : 

"I  never  saw  Horbury  in  better  spirits.  In- 
deed, I  remember  thinking  that  he  was  younger 
than  ever — younger  than  he  was  in  the  old  days 
when  he  was  a  junior  master  and  I  was  in  the 
Third.  Of  course,  he  was  always  energetic;  one 
could  not  disassociate  the  two  notions  of  Horbury 
and  energy,  and  I  used  to  make  him  laugh  by 
threatening  to  include  the  two  terms  in  the  new 
edition  of  my  little  book,  Latin  and  English 
Synonyms.  It  did  not  matter  whether  he  were 
taking  the  Fifth,  or  editing  Classics  for  his  boys, 
or  playing  rocker — one  could  not  help  rejoicing 
in  the  vivid  and  ebullient  energy  of  the  man. 
And  perhaps  this  is  one  reason  why  shirkers  and 
loafers  dreaded  him,  as  they  certainly  did. 

"But  during  those  last  few  days  at  Lupton  his 
vitality  had  struck  me  as  quite  superhuman.  As 
all  the  world  knows,  his  succession  to  the  Head- 
mastership  was  regarded  by  everyone  as  assured, 
and  he  was,  naturally  and  properly,  full  of  the 
great  task  which  he  believed  was  before  him. 
This  is  not  the  place  to  argue  the  merits  or  de- 
merits of  the  scheme  which  had  been  maturing 
for  many  years  in  his  brain. 

"A  few  persons  who,  I  cannot  but  think,  have 
120 


The  Secret  Glory 

received  very  imperfect  information  on  the  sub- 
ject, have  denounced  Horbury's  views  of  the 
modern  Public  School  as  revolutionary.  Revolu- 
tionary they  certainly  were,  as  an  express  engine 
is  revolutionary  compared  to  an  ox-waggon.  But 
those  who  think  of  the  late  Canon  Horbury  as 
indifferent  to  the  good  side  of  Public  School 
traditions  knew  little  of  the  real  man.  However, 
were  his  plans  good  or  bad,  they  were  certainly 
of  vast  scope,  and  on  the  first  night  of  my  visit 
he  made  me  sit  up  with  him  till  two  o'clock  while 
he  expounded  his  ideas,  some  of  which,  as  he  was 
good  enough  to  say,  he  trusted  to  me  to  carry 
out.  He  showed  me  the  piles  of  MS.  he  had 
accumulated:  hundreds  of  pages  relating  to  the 
multiple  departments  of  the  great  organisation 
which  he  was  to  direct,  or  rather  to  create;  sheets 
of  serried  figures,  sheaves  of  estimates  which  he 
had  caused  to  be  made  out  in  readiness  for  im- 
mediate action. 

"Nothing  was  neglected.  I  remember  seeing  a 
note  on  the  desirability  of  compiling  a  'Lupton 
Hymn  Book'  for  use  in  the  Chapel,  and  another 
on  the  question  of  forming  a  Botanical  Garden, 
so  that  the  school  botany  might  be  learned  from 
'the  green  life,'  as  he  beautifully  expressed  it,  not 
from  dry  letterpress  and  indifferent  woodcuts. 
Then,  I  think,  on  a  corner  of  the  'Botany  Leaf 
was  a  jotting — a  mere  hasty  scrawl,  waiting  de- 

121 


The  Secret  Glory 

velopment  and  consideration:  'Should  we  teach 
Hindustani?  Write  to  Tucker  re  the  Moulvie 
Ahmed  Khan.' 

"I  despair  of  giving  the  reader  any  conception 
of  the  range  and  minuteness  of  these  wonderful 
memoranda.  I  remember  saying  to  Horbury 
that  he  seemed  to  be  able  to  use  the  microscope 
and  the  telescope  at  the  same  time.  He  laughed 
joyously,  and  told  me  to  wait  till  he  was  really  at 
work.  'You  will  have  your  share,  I  promise  you,' 
he  added.  His  high  spirits  were  extraordinary 
and  infectious.  He  was  an  excellent  raconteur, 
and  now  and  again,  amidst  his  talk  of  the  New 
Lupton  which  he  was  about  to  translate  from  the 
idea  into  substance,  he  told  some  wonderful 
stories  which  I  have  not  the  heart  to  set  down 
here.  Tu  ne  qutesierls.  I  have  often  thought  of 
those  lines  when  I  remember  Horbury's  intense 
happiness,  the  nervous  energy  which  made  the 
delay  of  a  day  or  two  seem  almost  intolerable. 
His  brain  and  his  fingers  tingled,  as  it  were,  to  set 
about  the  great  work  before  him.  He  reminded 
me  of  a  mighty  host,  awaiting  but  the  glance  of 
their  general  to  rush  forward  with  irresistible 
force. 

"There  was  not  a  trace  of  misgiving.  Indeed, 
I  should  have  been  utterly  astonished  if  I  had  seen 
anything  of  the  kind.  He  told  me,  indeed,  that 
for  some  time  past  he  had  suspected  the  existence 

122 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  a  sort  of  cabal  or  clique  against  him.  'A.  and 
X.,  B.  and  Y.,  M.  and  N.,  and,  I  think,  Z.,  are 
in  it,'  he  said,  naming  several  of  the  masters,. 
'They  are  jealous,  I  suppose,  and  want  to  make 
things  as  difficult  as  they  can.  They  are  all 
cowards,  though,  and  I  don't  believe  one  of  them 
— except,  perhaps,  M. — would  fail  in  obedience, 
or  rather  in  subservience,  when  it  comes  to  the 
point.  But  I  am  going  to  make  short  work  of 
the  lot.'  And  he  told  me  his  intention  of  ridding 
the  school  of  these  disaffected  elements.  'The 
Trustees  will  back  me  up,  I  know,'  he  added, 
'but  we  must  try  to  avoid  all  unnecessary  fric- 
tion' ;  and  he  explained  to  me  a  plan  he  had 
thought  of  for  eliminating  the  masters  in  ques- 
tion. 'It  won't  do  to  have  half-hearted  officers 
on  our  ship,'  was  the  way  in  which  he  put  it,  and 
I  cordially  agreed  with  him. 

"Possibly  he  may  have  underrated  the  force 
of  the  opposition  which  he  treated  so  lightly; 
possibly  he  altogether  misjudged  the  situation. 
He  certainly  regarded  the  appointment  as  already 
made,  and  this,  of  course,  was,  or  appeared  to  be, 
the  conviction  of  all  who  knew  anything  of 
Lupton  and  Horbury. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  day  on  which  the 
news  came.  Horbury  made  a  hearty  breakfast, 
opening  letters,  jotting  down  notes,  talking  of  his 
plans  as  the  meal  proceeded.  I  left  him  for  a 

123 


The  Secret  Glory 

while.  I  was  myself  a  good  deal  excited,  and  I 
strolled  up  and  down  the  beautiful  garden  at  the 
Old  Grange,  wondering  whether  I  should  be  able 
to  satisfy  such  a  chief  who,  the  soul  of  energy 
himself,  would  naturally  expect  a  like  quality  in 
his  subordinates.  I  rejoined  him  in  the  course  of 
an  hour  in  the  study,  where  he  was  as  busy  as 
ever — 'snowed  up,'  as  he  expressed  it,  in  a  vast 
pile  of  papers  and  correspondence. 

"He  nodded  genially  and  pointed  to  a  chair, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  a  servant  came  in  with 
a  letter.  She  had  just  found  it  in  the  hall,  she 
explained.  I  had  taken  a  book  and  was  reading. 
I  noticed  nothing  till  what  I  can  only  call  a  groan 
of  intense  anguish  made  me  look  up  in  amaze- 
ment— indeed,  in  horror — and  I  was  shocked  to 
see  my  old  friend,  his  face  a  ghastly  white,  his 
eyes  staring  into  vacancy,  and  his  expression  one 
of  the  most  terrible — the  most  terrible — that  I 
have  ever  witnessed.  I  cannot  describe  that  look. 
There  was  an  agony  of  grief  and  despair,  a  glance 
of  the  wildest  amazement,  terror,  as  of  an  im- 
pending awful  death,  and  with  these  the  fiercest 
and  most  burning  anger  that  I  have  ever  seen  on 
any  human  face.  He  held  a  letter  clenched  in  his 
hand.  I  was  afraid  to  speak  or  move. 

"It  was  fully  five  minutes  before  he  regained 
his  self-control,  and  he  did  this  with  an  effort 
which  was  in  itself  dreadful  to  contemplate — so 

124 


The  Secret  Glory 

severe  was  the  struggle.  He  explained  to  me  in 
a  voice  which  faltered  and  trembled  with  the 
shock  that  he  had  received,  that  he  had  had 
very  bad  news — that  a  large  sum  of  money  which 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  the  carrying  out  of 
his  projects  had  been  embezzled  by  some  un- 
scrupulous person,  that  he  did  not  know  what  he 
should  do.  He  fell  back  into  his  chair;  in  a  few 
minutes  he  had  become  an  old  man. 

"He  did  not  seem  upset,  or  even  astonished, 
when,  later  in  the  day,  a  telegram  announced  that 
he  had  failed  in  the  aim  of  his  life — that  a 
stranger  was  to  bear  rule  in  his  beloved  Lupton. 
He  murmured  something  to  the  effect  that  it  was 
no  matter  now.  He  never  held  up  his  head 
again." 

This  note  is  an  extract  from  George  Horbury : 
a  Memoir.  It  was  written  by  Dr.  Wood  for  the 
use  of  a  few  friends  and  privately  printed  in  a 
small  edition  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  copies.  The 
author  felt,  as  he  explains  in  his  brief  Foreword, 
that  by  restricting  the  sale  to  those  who  either 
knew  Horbury  or  were  especially  interested  in  his 
work,  he  was  enabled  to  dwell  somewhat  inti- 
mately on  matters  which  could  hardly  have  been 
treated  in  a  book  meant  for  the  general  public. 

The  extract  that  has  been  made  from  this  book 
is  interesting  on  two  points.  It  shows  that 
Horbury  was  quite  unaware  of  what  had  been 

125 


The  Secret  Glory 

going  on  for  four  years  before  Chesson's  resigna- 
tion and  that  he  had  entirely  misinterpreted  the 
few  and  faint  omens  which  had  been  offered  him. 
He  was  preparing  to  break  a  sulky  sentinel  or 
two  when  all  the  ground  of  his  fortalice  was  a  very 
network  of  loaded  mines !  The  other  point  is  still 
more  curious.  It  will  be  seen  from  Wood's  story 
that  the  terrific  effect  that  he  describes  was  pro- 
duced by  a  letter,  received  some  hours  before  the 
news  of  the  Trustees'  decision  arrived  by  tele- 
gram. "Later  in  the  day"  is  the  phrase  in  the 
•Memoir;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  final  deliberation 
of  the  Lupton  Trustees,  held  at  Marshall's  Hotel 
in  Albemarle  Street,  began  at  eleven-thirty  and 
was  not  over  till  one-forty-five.  It  is  not  likely 
that  the  result  could  have  reached  the  Old  Grange 
before  two-fifteen;  whereas  the  letter  found  in 
the  hall  must  have  been  read  by  Horbury  before 
ten  o'clock.  The  invariable  breakfast  hour  at  the 
Old  Grange  was  eight  o'clock. 

C.  L.  Wood  says:  "I  rejoined  him  in  the 
course  of  an  hour,"  and  the  letter  was  brought  in 
"a  few  minutes  later."  Afterwards,  when  the 
fatal  telegram  arrived,  the  Memoir  notes  that  the 
unfortunate  man  was  not  "even  astonished."  It 
seems  to  follow  almost  necessarily  from  these 
facts  that  Horbury  learnt  the  story  of  his  ruin 
from  the  letter,  for  it  has  been  ascertained  that 

126 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  High  Usher's  account  of  the  contents  of  the 
letter  was  false  from  beginning  to  end.  Hor- 
bury's  most  excellent  and  sagacious  investments 
were  all  in  the  impeccable  hands  of  "Witham's" 
('Messrs.  Witham,  Venables,  Davenport  and 
Witham),  of  Raymond  Buildings,  Gray's  Inn, 
who  do  not  include  embezzlement  in  their  theory 
and  practice  of  the  law;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  nephew,  Charles  Horbury,  came  into  a  very 
handsome  fortune  on  the  death  of  his  uncle — 
eighty  thousand  pounds  in  personality,  with  the 
Old  Grange  and  some  valuable  ground  rents  in 
the  new  part  of  Lupton.  It  is  as  certain  as  any- 
thing can  be  that  George  Horbury  never  lost  a 
penny  by  embezzlement  or,  indeed,  in  any  other 
way. 

One  may  surmise,  then,  the  real  contents  of 
that  terrible  letter.  In  general,  that  is,  for  it  is 
impossible  to  conjecture  whether  the  writer  told 
the  whole  story;  one  does  not  know,  for  example, 
whether  Meyrick's  name  was  mentioned  or  not: 
whether  there  was  anything  which  carried  the 
reader's  mind  to  that  dark  evening  in  November 
when  he  beat  the  white-faced  boy  with  such  sav- 
age cruelty.  But  from  Dr.  Wood's  description 
of  the  wretched  man's  appearance  one  understands 
how  utterly  unexpected  was  the  crushing  blow 
that  had  fallen  upon  him.  It  was  a  lightning 

127 


The  Secret  Glory 

flash  from  the  sky  at  its  bluest,  and  before  that 
sudden  and  awful  blast  his  whole  life  fell  into 
deadly  and  evil  ruin. 

"He  never  held  up  his  head  again,"  He  never 
lived  again,  one  may  say,  unless  a  ceaseless  wheel 
of  anguish  and  anger  and  bitter  and  unavailing 
and  furious  regret  can  be  called  life.  It  was  not 
a  man,  but  a  shell,  full  of  gall  and  fire,  that  went 
to  Wareham;  but  probably  he  was  not  the  first 
of  the  Klippoth  to  be  made  a  Canon. 

As  we  have  no  means  of  knowing  exactly  what 
or  how  much  that  letter  told  him,  one  is  not  in  a 
position  to  say  whether  he  recognised  the  singu- 
larity— one  might  almost  say,  the  eccentricity — 
with  which  his  punishment  was  stage-managed. 
Nee  deus  inter  sit  certainly;  but  a  principle  may 
be  pushed  too  far,  and  a  critic  might  point  out 
that,  putting  avenging  deities  in  their  machines 
on  one  side,  it  was  rather  going  to  the  other 
extreme  to  bring  about  the  Great  Catastrophe  by 
means  of  bad  sherry,  a  trying  Headmaster,  boiled 
mutton,  a  troublesome  schoolboy  and  a  servant- 
maid.  Yet  these  were  the  agents  employed,  and 
it  seems  that  we  are  forced  to  the  conclusion  that 
we  do  not  altogether  understand  the  management 
of  the  universe.  The  conclusion  is  a  dangerous 
one,  since  we  may  be  led  by  it,  unless  great  care 
is  exercised,  into  the  worst  errors  of  the  Dark 
Ages. 

128 


The  Secret  Glory 

There  is  the  question,  of  course,  of  the  truth- 
fulness or  falsity  of  the  various  slanders  which 
had  such  a  tremendous  effect.  The  worst  of  them 
were  lies — there  can  be  little  doubt  of  that — and 
for  the  rest,  it  may  be  hinted  that  the  allusion  of 
the  young  master  to  Xanthias  Phoceus  was  not 
very  far  wide  of  the  mark.  Mrs.  Horbury  had 
been  dead  some  years,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
there  had  been  passages  between  the  High  Usher 
and  Nelly  Foran  which  public  opinion  would  have 
condemned.  It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  the  whole 
story,  but  the  girl's  fury  of  revenge  makes  one 
apt  to  believe  that  she  was  exacting  payment  not 
only  for  Ambrose's  wrongs,  but  for  some  grievous 
injury  done  to  herself. 

But  before  all  these  things  could  be  brought  to 
their  ending,  Ambrose  Meyrick  had  to  live  in 
wonders  and  delights,  to  be  initiated  in  many 
mysteries,  to  discover  the  meaning  of  that  voice 
which  seemed  to  speak  within  him,  denouncing 
him  because  he  had  pried  unworthily  into  the 
Secret  which  is  hidden  from  the  Holy  Angels. 


129 


Ill 


ONE  of  Ambrose  Meyrick's  favourite 
books  was  a  railway  time-table.  He 
spent  many  hours  in  studying  these  in- 
tricate pages  of  figures,  noting  times  of  arrival 
and  departure  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  following 
the  turnings  and  intersections  of  certain  lines  on 
the  map.  In  this  way  he  had  at  last  arrived 
at  the  best  and  quickest  route  to  his  native 
country,  which  he  had  not  seen  for  five  years. 
His  father  had  died  when  he  was  ten  years 
old. 

This  result  once  obtained,  the  seven-thirty  to 
Birmingham  got  him  in  at  nine-thirty-five;  the 
ten-twenty  for  the  west  was  a  capital  train,  and 
he  would  see  the  great  dome  of  Mynydd  Mawr 
before  one  o'clock.  His  fancy  led  him  often  to  a 
bridge  which  crossed  the  railway  about  a  mile  out 
of  Lupton.  East  and  west  the  metals  stretched 
in  a  straight  line,  defying,  it  seemed,  the  wisdom 
of  Euclid.  He  turned  from  the  east  and  gazed 
westward,  and  when  a  red  train  went  by  in  the 
right  direction  he  would  lean  over  the  bridge  and 

130 


The  Secret  Glory 

watch  till  the  last  flying  carriage  had  vanished 
into  the  distance.  He  imagined  himself  in  that 
train  and  thought  of  the  joy  of  it,  if  the  time  ever 
came — for  it  seemed  long — the  joy  in  every  revo- 
lution of  the  wheels,  in  every  whistle  of  the  en- 
gine; in  the  rush  and  in  the  rhythm  of  this  swift 
flight  from  that  horrible  school  and  that  horrible 
place. 

Year  after  year  went  by  and  he  had  not  re- 
visited the  old  land  of  his  father.  He  was  left 
alone  in  the  great  empty  house  in  charge  of  the 
servants  during  the  holidays — except  one  summer 
when  Mr.  Horbury  despatched  him  to  a  cousin  of 
his  who  lived  at  Yarmouth. 

The  second  year  after  his  father's  death  there 
was  a  summer  of  dreadful  heat.  Day  after  day 
the  sky  was  a  glare  of  fire,  and  in  these  abhorred 
Midlands,  far  from  the  breath  of  the  sea  and  the 
mountain  breeze,  the  ground  baked  and  cracked 
and  stank  to  heaven.  A  dun  smoke  rose  from  the 
earth  with  the  faint,  sickening  stench  of  a  brick- 
field, and  the  hedgerows  swooned  in  the  heat 
and  in  the  dust.  Ambrose's  body  and  soul  were 
athirst  with  the  desire  of  the  hills  and  the  woods; 
his  heart  cried  out  within  him  for  the  waterpools 
in  the  shadow  of  the  forest;  and  in  his  ears  con- 
tinually he  heard  the  cold  water  pouring  and 
trickling  and  dripping  from  the  grey  rocks  on  the 
great  mountain  side.  And  he  saw  that  awful  land 


The  Secret  Glory 

which  God  has  no  doubt  made  for  manufacturers 
to  prepare  them  for  their  eternal  habitation,  its 
weary  waves  burning  under  the  glaring  sky:  the 
factory  chimneys  of  Lupton  vomiting  their  foul 
smoke;  the  mean  red  streets,  each  little  hellway 
with  its  own  stink;  the  dull  road,  choking  in  its 
dust.  For  streams  there  was  the  Wand,  running 
like  black  oil  between  black  banks,  steaming  here 
as  boiling  poisons  were  belched  into  it  from  the 
factory  wall;  there  glittering  with  iridescent  scum 
vomited  from  some  other  scoundrel's  castle. 
And  for  the  waterpools  of  the  woods  he  was  free 
to  gaze  at  the  dark  green  liquor  in  the  tanks  of 
the  Sulphuric  Acid  factory,  but  a  little  way  out  of 
town.  Lupton  was  a  very  rising  place. 

His  body  was  faint  with  the  burning  heat  and 
the  foulness  of  all  about  him,  and  his  soul  was 
sick  with  loneliness  and  friendlessness  and  un- 
utterable longing.  He  had  already  mastered  his 
'.Bradshaw  and  had  found  out  the  bridge  over  the 
railway;  and  day  after  day  he  leaned  over  the 
parapet  and  watched  the  burning  metals  vanish- 
ing into  the  west,  into  the  hot,  thick  haze  that 
hung  over  all  the  land.  And  the  trains  sped  away 
towards  the  haven  of  his  desire,  and  he  wondered 
if  he  should  ever  see  again  the  dearly  loved 
country  or  hear  the  song  of  the  nightingale  in  the 
still  white  morning,  in  the  circle  of  the  green  hills. 
The  thought  of  his  father,  of  the  old  days  of 

132 


The  Secret  Glory 

happiness,  of  the  grey  home  in  the  still  valley, 
swelled  in  his  heart  and  he  wept  bitterly,  so  utterly 
forsaken  and  wretched  seemed  his  life. 

It  happened  towards  the  end  of  that  dreadful 
August  that  one  night  he  had  tossed  all  through 
the  hours  listening  to  the  chiming  bells,  only  fall- 
ing into  a  fevered  doze  a  little  while  before  they 
called  him.  He  woke  from  ugly  and  oppressive 
dreams  to  utter  wretchedness;  he  crawled  down- 
stairs like  an  old  man  and  left  his  breakfast 
untouched,  for  he  could  eat  nothing.  The  flame 
of  the  sun  seemed  to  burn  in  his  brain;  the  hot 
smoke  of  the  air  choked  him.  All  his  limbs 
ached.  From  head  to  foot  he  was  a  body  of  suf- 
fering. He  struggled  out  and  tottered  along  the 
road  to  the  bridge  and  gazed  with  dim,  hopeless 
eyes  along  the  path  of  desire,  into  the  heavy, 
burning  mist  in  the  far  distance.  And  then  his 
heart  beat  quick,  and  he  cried  aloud  in  his  amazed 
delight;  for,  in  the  shimmering  glamour  of  the 
haze,  he  saw  as  in  a  mirror  the  vast  green  wall  of 
the  Great  Mountain  rise  before  him — not  far,  but 
as  if  close  at  hand.  Nay,  he  stood  upon  its  slope ; 
his  feet  were  in  the  sweet-smelling  bracken;  the 
hazel  thicket  was  rustling  beneath  him  in  the 
brave  wind,  and  the  shining  water  poured  cold 
from  the  stony  rock.  He  heard  the  silver  note  of 
the  lark,  shrilling  high  and  glad  in  the  sunlight. 
He  saw  the  yellow  blossoms  tossed  by  the  breeze 

133 


The  Secret  Glory 

about  the  porch  of  the  white  house.  He  seemed 
to  turn  in  this  vision,,  and  before  him  the  dear, 
long-remembered  land  appeared  in  its  great  peace 
and  beauty:  meadows  and  cornfield,  hill  and  valley 
and  deep  wood  between  the  mountains  and  the  far 
sea.  He  drew  a  long  breath  of  that  quickening 
and  glorious  air,  and  knew  that  life  had  returned 
to  him.  And  then  he  was  gazing  once  more 
down  the  glittering  railway  into  the  mist;  but 
strength  and  hope  had  replaced  that  deadly  sick- 
ness of  a  moment  before,  and  light  and  joy  came 
back  to  his  eyes. 

The  vision  had  doubtless  been  given  to  him  in 
his  sore  and  pressing  need.  It  returned  no  more; 
not  again  did  he  see  the  fair  height  of  Mynydd 
Mawr  rise  out  of  the  mist.  But  from  that  day 
the  station  on  the  bridge  was  daily  consecrated. 
It  was  his  place  of  refreshment  and  hope  in  many 
seasons  of  evil  and  weariness.  From  this  place 
he  could  look  forward  to  the  hour  of  release  and 
return  that  must  come  at  last.  Here  he  could 
remind  himself  that  the  bonds  of  the  flesh  had 
been  broken  in  a  wonderful  manner;  that  he  had 
been  set  free  from  the  jaws  of  hell  and  death. 

Fortunately,  few  people  came  that  way.  It 
was  but  a  by-road  serving  a  few  farms  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  on  the  Sunday  afternoon,  in 
November,  the  Head's  sermon  over  and  dinner 

134 


The  Secret  Glory 

eaten,  he  betook  himself  to  his  tower,  free  to  be 
alone  for  a  couple  of  hours,  at  least. 

He  stood  there,  leaning  on  the  wall,  his  face 
turned,  as  ever,  to  the  west,  and,  as  it  were,  a 
great  flood  of  rapture  overwhelmed  him.  He 
sank  down,  deeper,  still  deeper,  into  the  hidden 
and  marvellous  places  of  delight.  In  his  country 
there  were  stories  of  the  magic  people  who  rose  all 
gleaming  from  the  pools  in  lonely  woods;  who 
gave  more  than  mortal  bliss  to  those  who  loved 
them;  who  could  tell  the  secrets  of  that  land 
where  flame  was  the  most  material  substance; 
whose  inhabitants  dwelt  in  palpitating  and  quiver- 
ing colours  or  in  the  notes  of  a  wonderful  melody. 
And  in  the  dark  of  the  night  all  legends  had  been 
fulfilled. 

It  was  a  strange  thing,  but  Ambrose  Meyrick, 
though  he  was  a  public  schoolboy  of  fifteen,  had 
lived  all  his  days  in  a  rapt  innocence.  It  is 
possible  that  in  school,  as  elsewhere,  enlighten- 
ment, pleasant  or  unpleasant,  only  comes  to  those 
who  seek  for  it — or  one  may  say  certainly  that 
there  are  those  who  dwell  under  the  protection  of 
enchantments,  who  may  go  down  into  the  black 
depths  and  yet  appear  resurgent  and  shining,  with- 
out any  stain  or  defilement  of  the  pitch  on  their 
white  robes.  For  these  have  ears  so  intent  on  cer- 
tain immortal  songs  that  they  cannot  hear  discor- 

135 


The  Secret  Glory 

dant  voices;  their  eyes  are  veiled  with  a  light  that 
shuts  out  the  vision  of  evil.  There  are  flames 
about  these  feet  that  extinguish  the  gross  fires  of 
the  pit. 

It  is  probable  that  all  through  those  early  years 
Ambrose's  father  had  been  charming  his  son's 
heart,  drawing  him  forth  from  the  gehenna-valley 
of  this  life  into  which  he  had  fallen,  as  one  draws 
forth  a  beast  that  has  fallen  into  some  deep  and 
dreadful  place.  Various  are  the  methods  recom- 
mended. There  is  the  way  of  what  is  called 
moral  teaching,  the  way  of  physiology  and  the 
way  of  a  masterly  silence;  but  Mr.  Meyrick's  was 
the  strange  way  of  incantation.  He  had,  in  a 
certain  manner,  drawn  the  boy  aside  from  that 
evil  traffic  of  the  valley,  from  the  stench  of  the 
turmoil,  from  the  blows  and  the  black  lechery, 
from  the  ugly  fight  in  the  poisonous  smoke,  from 
all  the  amazing  and  hideous  folly  that  practical 
men  call  life,  and  had  set  him  in  that  endless  pro- 
cession that  for  ever  and  for  ever  sings  its  litanies 
in  the  mountains,  going  from  height  to  height  on 
its  great  quest.  Ambrose's  soul  had  been  caught 
in  the  sweet  thickets  of  the  woods;  it  had  been 
bathed  in  the  pure  water  of  blessed  fountains;  it 
had  knelt  before  the  altars  of  the  old  saints,  till 
all  the  earth  was  become  a  sanctuary,  all  life  was 
a  rite  and  ceremony,  the  end  of  which  was  the 
attainment  of  the  mystic  sanctity — the  achieving 

136 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  the  Graal.  For  this — for  what  else? — were 
all  things  made.  It  was  this  that  the  little  bird 
sang  of  in  the  bush,  piping  a  few  feeble,  plaintive 
notes  of  dusky  evenings,  as  if  his  tiny  heart  were 
sad  that  it  could  utter  nothing  better  than  such 
sorry  praises.  This  also  celebrated  the  awe  of 
the  white  morning  on  the  hills,  the  breath  of  the 
woods  at  dawn.  This  was  figured  in  the  red  cere- 
mony of  sunset,  when  flames  shone  over  the  dome 
of  the  great  mountain,  and  roses  blossomed  in  the 
far  plains  of  the  sky.  This  was  the  secret  of  the 
dark  places  in  the  heart  of  the  woods.  This  the 
mystery  of  the  sunlight  on  the  height;  and  every 
little  flower,  every  delicate  fern,  and  every  reed 
and  rush  was  entrusted  with  the  hidden  declara- 
tion of  this  sacrament.  For  this  end,  final  and 
perfect  rites  had  been  given  to  men  to  execute; 
and  these  were  all  the  arts,  all  the  far-lifted 
splendour  of  the  great  cathedral;  all  rich  carven 
work  and  all  glowing  colours;  all  magical  utter- 
ance of  word  and  tones:  all  these  things  were 
the  witnesses  that  consented  in  the  One  Offering, 
in  the  high  service  of  the  Graal. 

To  this  service  also,  together  with  songs  and 
burning  torches  and  dyed  garments  and  the  smoke 
of  the  bruised  incense,  were  brought  the  incense 
of  the  bruised  heart,  the  magic  torches  of  virtue 
hidden  from  the  world,  the  red  dalmatics  of  those 
whose  souls  had  been  martyred,  the  songs  of  tri- 

137 


The  Secret  Glory 

umph  and  exultation  chanted  by  them  that  the 
profane  had  crushed  into  the  dust;  holy  wells  and 
water-stoups  were  fountains  of  tears.  So  must 
the  Mass  be  duly  celebrated  in  Cor-arbennic  when 
Cadwaladr  returned,  when  Teilo  Agyos  lifted  up 
again  the  Shining  Cup. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  strange  that  a  boy  who  had 
listened  to  such  spells  as  these  should  heed  nothing 
of  the  foolish  evils  about  him,  the  nastiness  of 
silly  children  who,  for  want  of  wits,  were  "crush- 
ing the  lilies  into  the  dunghill."  He  listened  to 
nothing  of  their  ugly  folly;  he  heard  it  not,  under- 
stood it  not,  thought  as  little  of  it  as  of  their 
everlasting  chatter  about  "brooks"  and  "quarries" 
and  "leg-hits"  and  "beaks  from  the  off."  And 
when  an  unseemly  phrase  did  chance  to  fall  on 
ihis  ear  it  was  of  no  more  import  or  meaning  than 
any  or  all  of  the  stupid  jargon  that  went  on  day 
after  day,  mixing  itself  with  the  other  jargon 
about  the  optative  and  the  past  participle,  the 
oratio  obliqua  and  the  verbs  in  /«.  To  him  this 
was  all  one  nothingness,  and  he  would  not  have 
dreamed  of  connecting  anything  of  it  with  the 
facts  of  life,  as  he  understood  life. 

Hence  it  was  that  for  him  all  that  was  beautiful 
and  wonderful  was  a  part  of  sanctity;  all  the  glory 
of  life  was  for  the  service  of  the  sanctuary,  and 
when  one  saw  a  lovely  flower  it  was  to  be  strewn 
before  the  altar,  just  as  the  bee  was  holy  because 

138 


The  Secret  Glory 

by  its  wax  the  Gifts  are  illuminated.  Where  joy 
and  delight  and  beauty  were,  there  he  knew  by 
sure  signs  were  the  parts  of  the  mystery,  the 
glorious  apparels  of  the  heavenly  vestments.  If 
anyone  had  told  him  that  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale was  an  unclean  thing  he  would  have  stared 
in  amazement,  as  though  one  had  blasphemed  the 
Sanctus.  To  him  the  red  roses  were  as  holy  as 
the  garments  of  the  martyrs.  The  white  lilies 
were  pure  and  shining  virtues;  the  imagery  of 
the  Song  of  Songs  was  obvious  and  perfect  and 
unassailable,  for  in  this  world  there  was  nothing 
common  nor  unclean.  And  even  to  him  the  great 
gift  had  been  freely  given. 

So  he  stood,  wrapt  in  his  meditations  and  in 
his  ecstasy,  by  the  bridge  over  the  Midland  line 
from  Lupton  to  Birmingham.  Behind  him  were 
the  abominations  of  Lupton:  the  chimneys 
vomiting  black  smoke  faintly  in  honour  of  the 
Sabbath;  the  red  lines  of  the  workmen's  streets 
advancing  into  the  ugly  fields;  the  fuming  pottery 
kilns,  the  hideous  'height  of  the  boot  factory. 
And  before  him  stretched  the  unspeakable 
scenery  of  the  eastern  Midlands,  which  seems 
made  for  the  habitation  of  English  Nonconform- 
ists— dull,  monotonous,  squalid,  the  very  hedge- 
rows cropped  and  trimmed,  the  trees  looking  like 
rows  of  Roundheads,  the  farmhouses1  as  uninter- 
esting as  suburban  villas.  On  a  field  near  at  hand 

139 


The  Secret  Glory 

a  scientific  farmer  had  recently  applied  an 
agreeable  mixture  consisting  of  superphosphate  of 
lime,  nitrate  of  soda  and  bone  meal.  The  stink 
was  that  of  a  chemical  works  or  a  Texel  cheese. 
Another  field  was  just  being  converted  into  an 
Orchard.  There  were  rows  of  grim  young  apple 
trees  planted  at  strictly  mathematical  intervals 
from  one  another,  and  grisly  little  graves  had 
been  dug  between  the  apple  trees  for  the  reception 
of  gooseberry  bushes.  Between  these  rows  the 
farmer  hoped  to  grow  potatoes,  so  the  ground 
had  been  thoroughly  trenched.  It  looked  sodden 
and  unpleasant.  To  the  right  Ambrose  could  see 
how  the  operations  on  a  wandering  brook  were 
progressing.  It  had  moved  in  and  out  in  the 
most  wasteful  and  absurd  manner,  and  on  each 
bank  there  had  grown  a  twisted  brake  of  trees 
and  bushes  and  rank  water  plants.  There  were 
wonderful  red  roses  there  in  summer  time.  Now 
all  this  was  being  rectified.  In  the  first  place  the 
stream  had  been  cut  into  a  straight  channel  with 
raw,  bare  banks,  and  then  the  rose  bushes,  the 
alders,  the  willows  and  the  rest  were  being 
grubbed  up  by  the  roots  and  so  much  valuable  land 
was  being  redeemed.  The  old  barn  which  used 
to  be  visible  on  the  left  of  the  line  had  been  pulled 
down  for  more  than  a  year.  It  had  dated  per- 
haps from  the  seventeenth  century.  Its  roof- 
tree  had  dipped  and  waved  in  a  pleasant  fashion, 

140 


and  the  red  tiles  had  the  glow  of  the  sun  in  their 
colours,  and  the  half-timbered  walls  were  not 
lacking  in  ruinous  brace.  It  was  a  dilapidated  old 
shed,  and  a  neat-looking  structure  with  a  cor- 
rugated iron  roof  now  stood  in  its  place. 

Beyond  all  was  the  grey  prison  wall  of  the 
horizon;  but  Ambrose  no  longer  gazed  at  it  with 
the  dim,  hopeless  eyes  of  old.  He  had  a  Breviary 
among  his  books,  and  he  thought  of  the  words: 
Anima  mea  erepta  est  sicut  passer  de  laqueo  venan- 
tium,  and  he  knew  that  in  a  good  season  his  body 
would  escape  also.  The  exile  would  end  at  last. 

He  remembered  an  old  tale  which  his  father 
was  fond  of  telling  him — the  story  of  Eos  Amher- 
awdur  (the  Emperor  Nightingale).  Very  long 
ago,  the  story  began,  the  greatest  and  the  finest 
court  in  all  the  realms  of  faery  was  the  court  of 
the  Emperor  Eos,  who  was  above  all  the  kings  of 
the  Tylwydd  Teg,  as  the  Emperor  of  Rome  is 
head  over  all  the  kings  of  the  earth.  So  that 
even  Gwyn  ap  Nudd,  whom  they  now  call  lord 
over  all  the  fair  folk  of  the  Isle  of  Britain,  was 
but  the  man  of  Eos^  and  no  splendour  such  as  his 
was  ever  seen  in  all  the  regions  of  enchantment 
and  faery.  Eos  had  his  court  in  a  vast  forest, 
called  Wentwood,  in  the  deepest  depths  of  the 
green-wood  between  Caerwent  anti  Caermaen, 
which  is  also  called  the  City  of  the  Legions; 
though  some  men  say  that  we  should  rather  name 

141 


The  Secret  Glory 

it  the  city  of  the  Waterfloods.  Here,  then,  was 
the  Palace  of  Eos,  built  of  the  finest  stones  after 
the  Roman  manner,  and  within  it  were  the  most 
glorious  chambers  that  eye  has  ever  seen,  and 
there  was  no  end  to  the  number  of  them,  for  they 
could  not  be  counted.  For  the  stones  of  the 
palace  being  immortal,  they  were  at  the  pleasure 
of  the  Emperor.  If  he  had  willed,  all  the  hosts 
of  the  world  could  stand  in  his  geatest  hall,  and,  if 
he  had  willed,  not  so  much  as  an  ant  could  enter 
into  it,  since  it  could  not  be  discerned.  But  on 
common  days  they  spread  the  Emperor's  banquet 
in  nine  great  halls,  each  nine  times  larger  than 
any  that  are  in  the  lands  of  the  men  of  Normandi. 
And  Sir  Caw  was  the  seneschal  who  marshalled 
the  feast;  and  if  you  would  count  those  under 
his  command — go,  count  the  drops  of  water  that 
are  in  the  Uske  River.  But  if  you  would  learn 
the  splendour  of  this  castle  it  is  an  easy  matter, 
for  Eos  hung  the  walls  of  it  with  Dawn  and 
Sunset.  He  lit  it  with  the  sun  and  moon.  There 
was  a  well  in  it  called  Ocean.  And  nine  churches 
of  twisted  boughs  were  set  apart  in  which  Eos 
might  hear  Mass;  and  when  his  clerks  sang  before 
him  all  the  jewels  rose  shining  out  of  the  earth, 
and  all  the  stars  bent  shining  down  from  heaven, 
so  enchanting  was  the  melody.  Then  was  great 
bliss  in  all  the  regions  of  the  fair  folk.  But  Eos 
was  grieved  because  mortal  ears  could  not  hear 

142 


The  Secret  Glory 

nor  comprehend  the  enchantment  of  their  song. 
What,  then,  did  he  do?  Nothing  less  than  this. 
He  divested  himself  of  all  his  glories  and  of  his 
kingdom,,  and  transformed  himself  into  the  shape 
of  a  little  brown  bird,  and  went  flying  about  the 
woods,  desirous  of  teaching  men  the  sweetness  of 
the  faery  melody.  And  all  the  other  birds  said: 
"This  is  a  contemptible  stranger."  The  eagle 
found  him  not  even  worthy  to  be  a  prey;  the  raven 
and  the  magpie  called  him  simpleton;  the  pheasant 
asked  where  he  had  got  that  ugly  livery;  the  lark 
wondered  why  he  hid  himself  in  the  darkness  of 
the  wood;  the  peacock  would  not  suffer  his  name 
to  be  uttered.  In  short  never  was  anyone  so  de- 
spised as  was  Eos  by  all  the  chorus  of  the  birds. 
But  wise  men  heard  that  song  from  the  faery 
regions  and  listened  all  night  beneath  the  bough, 
and  these  were  the  first  who  were  bards  in  the 
Isle  of  Britain. 

Ambrose  had  heard  the  song  from  the  faery 
regions.  He  had  heard  it  in  swift  whispers  at  his 
ear,  in  sighs  upon  his  breast,  in  the  breath  of 
kisses  on  his  lips.  Never  was  he  numbered 
amongst  the  despisers  of  Eos. 

II 

Mr.  Horbury  had  suffered  from  one  or  two 
slight  twinges  of  conscience  for  a  few  days  after 

H3 


The  Secret  Glory 

he  had  operated  on  his  nephew.  They  were  but 
very  slight  pangs,  for,  after  all,  it  was  a  case  of 
flagrant  and  repeated  disobedience  to  rules,  com- 
plicated by  lying.  The  High  Usher  was  quite 
sincere  in  scouting  the  notion  of  a  boy's  taking 
any  interest  in  Norman  architecture,  and,  as  he 
said  to  himself,  truly  enough,  if  every  boy  at  Lup- 
ton  could  come  and  go  when  and  how  he  pleased, 
and  choose  which  rules  he  would  keep  and  which 
disobey — why,  the  school  would  soon  be  in  a 
pretty  state.  Still,  there  was  a  very  faint  and 
indistinct  murmur  in  his  mind  which  suggested 
that  Meyrick  had  received,  in  addition  to  his 
own  proper  thrashing,  the  thrashings  due  to  the 
Head,  his  cook  and  his  wine  merchant.  And 
Horbury  was  rather  sorry,  for  he  desired  to  be 
just  according  to  his  definition  of  justice — unless, 
indeed  justice  should  be  excessively  inconveni- 
ent. 

But  these  faint  scruples  were  soon  removed — 
turned,  indeed,  to  satisfaction  by  the  evident 
improvement  which  declared  itself  in  Ambrose 
Meyrick's  whole  tone  and  demeanour.  He 
no  longer  did  his  best  to  avoid  rocker.  He 
played,  and  played  well  and  with  relish.  The  boy 
was  evidently  all  right  at  heart:  he  had  only 
wanted  a  sharp  lesson,  and  it  was  clear  that,  once 
a  loafer,  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  be  a  credit  to 
the  school.  And  by  some  of  those  secret 

144 


The  Secret  Glory 

channels  which  are  known  to  masters  and  to 
masters  alone,  rather  more  than  a  glimmering  of 
the  truth  as  to  Rawson's  black  eyes  and  Felly's 
disfigured  nose  was  vouchsafed  to  Horbury's 
vision,  and  he  was  by  no  means  displeased  with 
his  nephew.  The  two  boys  had  evidently  asked 
for  punishment,  and  had  got  it.  It  served  them 
right.  Of  course,  if  the  swearing  had  been 
brought  to  his  notice  by  official  instead  of  by  sub- 
terranean and  mystic  ways,  he  would  have  had 
to  cane  Meyrick  a  second  time,  since,  by  the  Pub- 
lic School  convention,  an  oath  is  a  very  serious 
offence — as  bad  as  smoking,  or  worse;  but,  being 
far  from  a  fool,  under  the  circumstances  he  made 
nothing  of  it.  Then  the  lad's  school  work  was 
so  very  satisfactory.  It  had  always  been  good, 
but  it  had  become  wonderfully  good.  That  last 
Greek  prose  had  shown  real  grip  of  the  language. 
The  High  Usher  was  pleased.  His  sharp  lesson 
had  brought  forth  excellent  results,  and  he  fore- 
saw the  day  when  he  would  be  proud  of  having 
taught  a  remarkably  fine  scholar. 

With  the  boys  Ambrose  was  becoming  a  gen- 
eral favourite.  He  learned  not  only  to  play 
rocker,  he  showed  Pelly  how  he  thought  that 
blow  under  the  ear  should  be  dealt  with.  They 
all  said  he  was  a  good  fellow;  but  they  could  not 
make  out  why,  without  apparent  reason,  he 
would  sometimes  burst  out  into  loud  laughter. 


The  Secret  Glory 

'But  he  said  it  was  something  wrong  with  his  in- 
side— the  doctors  couldn't  make  it  out — and  this 
seemed  rather  interesting. 

In  after  life  he  often  looked  back  upon  this 
period  when,  to  all  appearance,  Lupton  was 
"making  a  man"  of  him,  and  wondered  at  its 
strangeness.  To  boys  and  masters  alike  he  was 
an  absolutely  normal  schoolboy,  busy  with  the 
same  interests  as  the  rest  of  them.  There  was 
certainly  something  rather  queer  in  his  appear- 
ance; but,  as  they  said,  generously  enough,  a  fel- 
low couldn't  help  his  looks;  and,  that  curious 
glint  in  the  eyes  apart,  he  seemed  as  good  a  Lup- 
tonian  as  any  in  the  whole  six  hundred.  Every- 
body thought  that  he  had  absolutely  fallen  into 
line;  that  he  was  absorbing  the  ethos  of  the  place 
in  the  most  admirable  fashion,  subduing  his  own 
individuality,  his  opinions,  his  habits,  to  the  gen- 
eral tone  of  the  community  around  him — putting 
off,  as  it  were,  the  profane  dust  of  his  own  spirit 
and  putting  on  the  mental  frock  of  the  brother- 
hood. This,  of  course,  is  one  of  the  aims — - 
rather,  the  great  aim — of  the  system :  this  fashion- 
ing of  very  diverse  characters  into  one  common 
form,  so  that  each  great  Public  School  has  its 
type,  which  is  easily  recognisable  in  the  grown-up 
man  years  after  his  school  days  are  over.  Thus, 
in  far  lands,  in  India  and  Egypt,  in  Canada  and 
New  Zealand,  one  recognises  the  brisk  alertness 

146 


The  Secret  Glory 

of  the  Etonian,  the  exquisite  politeness  of  Har- 
row, the  profound  seriousness  of  Rugby;  while 
the  note  of  Lupton  may,  perhaps,  be  called  finality. 
The  Old  Luptonian  no  more  thinks  of  arguing  a 
question  than  does  the  Holy  Father,  and  his  con- 
versation is  a  series  of  irreformable  dogmas,  and 
the  captious  person  who  questions  any  one  article 
is  made  to  feel  himself  a  cad  and  an  outsider. 

Thus  it  has  been  related  that  two  men  who  had 
met  for  the  first  time  at  a  certain  country  house- 
party  were  getting  on  together  capitally  in  the 
evening  over  their  whisky  and  soda  and  cigars. 
Each  held  identical  views  of  equal  violence  on 
some  important  topic — Home  Rule  or  the  Trans- 
vaal or  Free  Trade — and,  as  the  more  masterful 
of  the  two  asserted  that  hanging  was  too  good 
for  Blank  (naming  a  well-known  statesman),  the 
other  would  reply:  "I  quite  agree  with  you:  hang- 
ing is  too  good  for  Blank." 

"He  ought  to  be  burned  alive,"  said  the  one. 

"That's  about  it:  he  ought  to  be  burned  at 
the  stake,"  answered  the  other. 

"Look  at  the  way  he  treated  Dash!  He's  a 
coward  and  a  damned  scoundrel!" 

"Perfectly  right.  He's  a  damned  cursed 
scoundrel!" 

This  was  splendid,  and  each  thought  the  other 
a  charming  companion.  Unfortunately,  however, 
the  conversation,  by  some  caprice,  veered  from 

H7 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  iniquities  of  Blank  and  glanced  aside  to 
cookery — possibly  by  the  track  of  Irish  stew, 
used  metaphorically  to  express  the  disastrous  and 
iniquitous  policy  of  the  great  statesman  with  re- 
gard to  Ireland.  But,  as  it  happened,  there  was 
not  the  same  coincidence  on  the  question  of 
cookery  as  there  had  been  on  the  question  of 
Blank.  The  masterful  man  said : 

"No  cookery  like  English.  No  other  race  in 
the  world  can  cook  as  we  do.  Look  at  French 
cookery — a  lot  of  filthy,  greasy  messes." 

Now,  instead  of  assenting  briskly  and  firmly  as 
before  the  other  man  said:  "Been  much  in 
France?  Lived  there?" 

"Never  set  foot  in  the  beastly  country!  Don't 
like  their  ways,  and  don't  care  to  dine  off  snails 
and  frogs  swimming  in  oil." 

The  other  man  began  then  to  talk  of  the  simple 
but  excellent  meals  he  had  relished  in  France — 
the  savoury  croute-au-pot,  the  bouilli — good  eat- 
ing when  flavoured  by  a  gherkin  or  two;  velvety 
epinards  au  jus,  a  roast  partridge,  a  salad,  a  bit 
of  Roquefort  and  a  bunch  of  grapes.  But  he  had 
barely  mentioned  the  soup  when  the  masterful 
one  wheeled  round  his  chair  and  offered  a  fine 
view  of  his  strong,  well-knit  figure — as  seen  from 
the  back.  He  did  not  say  anything — he  simply 
took  up  the  paper  and  went  on  smoking.  The 

148 


The  Secret  Glory 

other  men  stared  in  amazement:  the  amateur  of 
French  cookery  looked  annoyed.  But  the  host — 
a  keen-eyed  old  fellow  with  a  white  moustache, 
turned  to  the  enemy  of  frogs  and  snails  and 
grease  and  said  quite  simply:  "I  say,  Mulock,  I 
never  knew  you'd  been  at  Lupton." 

Mulock  gazed.  The  other  men  held  their 
breath  for  a  moment  as  the  full  force  of  the 
situation  dawned  on  them,  and  then  a  wild  scream 
of  laughter  shrilled  from  their  throats.  Yells 
and  roars  of  mirth  resounded  in  the  room. 
Their  delight  was  insatiable.  It  died  for  a  mo- 
ment for  lack  of  breath,  and  then  burst  out  anew 
in  still  louder,  more  uproarious  clamour,  till  old 
Sir  Henry  Rawnsley,  who  was  fat  and  short, 
could  do  nothing  but  choke  and  gasp  and  crow 
out  a  sound  something  between  a  wheeze  and  a 
chuckle.  Mulock  left  the  room  immediately,  and 
the  house  the  next  morning.  He  made  some: 
excuse  to  his  host,  but  he  told  enquiring  friends 
that,  personally,  he  disliked  bounders. 

The  story,  true  or  false,  illustrates  the  common 
view  of  the  Lupton  stamp. 

"We  try  to  teach  the  boys  to  know  their  own 
minds,"  said  the  Headmaster,  and  the  endeavour 
seems  to  have  succeeded  in  most  cases.  And,  as 
Horbury  noted  in  an  article  he  once  wrote  on  the 
Public  School  system,  every  boy  was  expected 

149 


The  Secret  Glory 

to  submit  himself  to  the  process,  to  form  and 
reform  himself  in  accordance  with  the  tone  of 
the  school. 

"I  sometimes  compare  our  work  with  that  of 
the  metal  founder,"  he  says  in  the  article  in 
question.  "Just  as  the  metal  comes  to  the 
foundry  rudis  indigestaque  moles,  a  rough  and 
formless  mass,  without  the  slightest  suggestion 
of  the  shape  which  it  must  finally  assume,  so  a 
boy  comes  to  a  great  Public  School  with  little  or 
nothing  about  him  to  suggest  the  young  man  who, 
in  eight  or  nine  years'  time,  will  say  good-bye  to 
the  dear  old  school,  setting  his  teeth  tight,  re- 
straining himself  from  giving  up  to  the  anguish 
of  this  last  farewell.  Nay,  I  think  that  ours  is 
the  harder  task,  for  the  metal  that  is  sent  to  the 
foundry  has,  I  presume,  been  freed  of  its  impuri- 
ties; we  have  to  deal  rather  with  the  ore — a  mass 
which  is  not  only  shapeless,  but  contains  much 
that  is  not  metal  at  all,  which  must  be  burnt  out 
and  cast  aside  as  useless  rubbish.  So  the  boy 
comes  from  his  home,  which  may  or  may  not  have 
possessed  valuable  formative  influences;  which 
we  often  find  has  tended  to  create  a  spirit  of 
individualism  and  assertiveness;  which,  in  numer- 
ous cases,  has  left  the  boy  under  the  delusion  that 
'he  has  come  into  the  world  to  live  his  own  life 
and  think  his  own  thoughts.  This  is  the  ore  that 
we  cast  into  our  furnace.  We  burn  out  the  dross 

150 


The  Secret  Glory 

and  rubbish;  we  liquefy  the  stubborn  and  resist- 
ing metal  till  it  can  be  run  into  the  mould — the 
mould  being  the  whole  tone  and  feeling  of  a  great 
community.  We  discourage  all  excessive  indi- 
viduality; we  make  it  quite  plain  to  the  boy  that 
he  has  come  to  Lupton,  not  to  live  his  life,  not 
to  think  his  thoughts,  but  to  live  our  life,  to  think 
our  thoughts.  Very  often,  as  I  think  I  need 
scarcely  say,  the  process  is  a  somewhat  unpleasant 
one,  but,  sooner  or  later,  the  stubbornest  metal 
yields  to  the  cleansing,  renewing,  restoring  fires 
of  discipline  and  public  opinion,  and  the  shapeless 
mass  takes  on  the  shape  of  the  Great  School. 
Only  the  other  day  an  old  pupil  came  to  see  me 
and  confessed  that,  for  the  whole  of  his  first  year 
at  Lupton,  he  had  been  profoundly  wretched.  'I 
was  a  dreamy  young  fool,'  he  said.  'My  head 
was  stuffed  with  all  sorts  of  queer  fancies,  and  I 
expect  that  if  I  hadn't  come  to  Lupton  I  should 
have  turned  out  an  absolute  loafer.  But  I 
hated  it  badly  that  first  year.  I  loathed  rocker 
— I  did,  really — and  I  thought  the  fellows  were 
a  lot  of  savages.  And  then  I  seemed  to  go  into  a 
kind  of  cloud.  You  see,  Sir,  I  was  losing  my  old 
self  and  hadn't  got  the  new  self  in  its  place,  and  I 
couldn't  make  out  what  was  happening.  And 
then,  quite  suddenly,  it  all  came  out  light  and 
clear.  I  saw  the  purpose  behind  it  all — how  we 
were  all  working  together,  masters  and  boys,  for 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  dear  old  school;  how  we  were  all  "members 
one  of  another,"  as  the  Doctor  said  in  Chapel; 
and  that  I  had  a  part  in  this  great  work,  too, 
though  I  was  only  a  kid  in  the  Third.  It  was 
like  a  flash  of  light:  one  minute  I  was  only  a  poor 
little  chap  that  nobody  cared  for  and  who  didn't 
matter  to  anybody,  and  the  next  I  saw  that,  in  a 
way,  I  was  as  important  as  the  Doctor  himself — 
I  was  a  part  of  the  failure  or  success  of  it  all. 
Do  you  know  what  I  did,  Sir?  I  had  a  book  I 
thought  a  lot  of — Poems  and  Tales  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe.  It  was  my  poor  sister's  book;  she 
had  died  a  year  before  when  she  was  only  seven- 
teen, and  she  had  written  my  name  in  it  when 
she  was  dying — she  knew  I  was  fond  of  reading  it. 
It  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  I  used  to  like — mor- 
bid fancies  and  queer  poems,  and  I  was  always 
reading  it  when  the  fellows  would  let  me  alone. 
But  when  I  saw  what  life  really  was,  when  the 
meaning  of  it  all  came  to  me,  as  I  said  just  now, 
I  took  that  book  and  tore  it  to  bits,  and  it  was  like 
tearing  myself  up.  But  I  knew  that  writing  all 
that  stuff  hadn't  done  that  American  fellow  much 
good,  and  I  didn't  see  what  good  I  should  get  by 
reading  it.  I  couldn't  make  out  to  myself 
that  it  would  fit  in  with  the  Doctor's  plans  of  the 
spirit  of  the  school,  or  that  I  should  play  up  at 
rocker  any  better  for  knowing  all  about  the  "Fall 
of  the  House  of  Usher,"  or  whatever  it's  called. 

152 


The  Secret  Glory 

I  knew  my  poor  sister  would  understand,  so  I  tore 
it  up,  and  I've  gone  straight  ahead  ever  since — 
thanks  to  Lupton.'  Like  a  refiner's  fire.  I  re- 
membered the  dreamy,  absent-minded  child  of 
fifteen  years  before;  I  could  scarcely  believe  that 
he  stood  before — keen,  alert,  practical,  living 
every  moment  of  his  life,  a  force,  a  power  in  the 
world,  certain  of  successful  achievement." 

Such  were  the  influences  to  which  Ambrose 
Meyrick  was  being  subjected,  and  with  infinite 
success,  as  it  seemed  to  everybody  who  watched 
him.  He  was  regarded  as  a  conspicuous  instance 
of  the  efficacy  of  the  system — he  had  held  out  so 
long,  refusing  to  absorb  the  "tone,"  presenting  an 
obstinate  surface  to  the  millstones  which  would, 
for  his  own  good,  have  ground  him  to  powder,  not 
concealing  very  much  his  dislike  of  the  place  and 
of  the  people  in  it.  And  suddenly  he  had  sub- 
mitted with  a  good  grace:  it  was  wonderful! 
The  masters  are  believed  to  have  discussed  the 
affair  amongst  themselves^  and  Hbrbury,  who 
confessed  or  boasted  that  he  had  used  sharp 
persuasion,  got  a  good  deal  of  kudos  in  con- 
sequence. 

Ill 

A  few  years  ago  a  little  book  called  Half- 
holidays  attracted  some  attention  in  semi- 

153 


The  Secret  Glory 

scholastic,  semi-clerical  circles.  It  was  anony- 
mous, and  bore  the  modest  motto  Crambe  bis 
cocta,  but  those  behind  the  scenes  recognised  it 
as  the  work  of  Charles  Palmer,  who  was  for 
many  years  a  master  at  Lupton.  His  acknowl- 
edged books  include  a  useful  little  work  on  the 
Accents  and  an  excellent  summary  of  Roman  His- 
tory from  the  Fall  of  the  Republic  to  Romulus 
Augustulus.  The  Half-holidays  contains  the 
following  amusing  passage;  there  is  not  much 
difficulty  in  identifying  the  N.  mentioned  in  it 
with  Ambrose  Meyrick. 

"The  cleverest  dominie  sometimes  discovers" 
— the  passage  begins — "that  he  has  been  living 
in  a  fool's  paradise,  that  he  has  been  tricked  by 
a  quiet  and  persistent  subtlety  that  really  strikes 
one  as  almost  devilish  when  one  finds  it  exhibited 
in  the  person  of  an  English  schoolboy.  A  good 
deal  of  nonsense,  I  think,  has  been  written  about 
boys  by  people  who  in  reality  know  very  little 
about  them;  they  have  been  credited  with  com- 
plexities of  character,  with  feelings  and  aspir- 
ations and  delicacies  of  sentiment  which  are  quite 
foreign  to  their  nature.  I  can  quite  believe  in  the 
dead  cat  trick  of  Stalky  and  ihis  friends,  but  I 
confess  that  the  incident  of  the  British  Flag  leaves 
me  cold  and  sceptical.  Such  refinement  of  per- 
ception is  not  the  way  of  the  boy — certainly  not 
of  the  boy  as  I  have  known  .him.  He  is  radically 

154 


The  Secret  Glory 

a  simple  soul,  whose  feelings  are  on  the  surface; 
,'and  his  deepest  laid  Schemes  and  manoeuvres 
hardly  call  for  the  talents  of  a  Sherlock  Holmes 
if  they  are  to  be  detected  and  brought  to  naught. 
Of  course,  a  good  deal  of  rubbish  has  been  talked 
about  the  wonderful  success  of  our  English  plan 
of  leaving  the  boys  to  themselves  without  the 
everlasting  supervision  which  is  practised  in 
French  schools.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  English 
schoolboy  is  under  constant  supervision;  where 
in  a  French  school  one  wretched  usher  has  to  look 
after  a  whole  horde  of  boys,  in  an  English  school 
each  boy  is  perpetually  under  the  observation  of 
hundreds  of  his  fellows.  In  reality,  each  boy  is 
an  unpaid  pion,  a  watchdog  whose  vigilance  never 
relaxes.  He  is  not  aware  of  this;  one  need 
scarcely  say  that  such  a  notion  is  far  from  his 
wildest  thoughts.  He  thinks,  and  very  rightly, 
doubtless,  that  he  is  engaged  in  maintaining  the 
honour  of  the  school,  in  keeping  up  the  observ- 
ance of  the  school  tradition,  in  dealing  sharply 
with  slackers  and  loafers  who  would  bring  dis- 
credit on  the  place  he  loves  so  well.  He  is,  no 
doubt,  absolutely  right  in  all  this;  none  the  less, 
he  is  doing  the  master's  work  unwittingly  and  ad- 
mirably. When  one  thinks  of  this,  and  of  the 
Compulsory  System  of  Games,  which  ensures  that 
every  boy  shall  be  in  a  certain  place  at  a  certain 
time,  one  sees,  I  think,  that  the  phrase  about  our 

155 


The  Secret  Glory 

lack  of  supervision  is  a  phrase  and  nothing  more. 
There  is  no  system  of  supervision  known  to  human 
wit  that  approches  in  thoroughness  and  minute- 
ness the  supervision  under  which  every  single  boy 
is  kept  all  through  his  life  at  an  English  Public 
School. 

"Hence  one  is  really  rather  surprised  when,  in 
spite  of  all  these  unpaid  assistants,  who  are  the 
whole  school,  one  is  thoroughly  and  completely 
taken  in.  I  can  only  remember  one  such  case,  and 
I  am  still  astonished  at  the  really  infernal  ability 
with  which  the  boy  in  question  lived  a  double  life 
under  the  very  eyes  of  the  masters  and  six  hun- 
dred other  boys.  N.,  as  I  shall  call  him,  was 
not  in  my  House,  and  I  can  scarcely  say  how  I 
came  to  watch  his  career  with  so  much  interest; 
but  there  was  certainly  something  about  him, 
which  did  interest  me  a  good  deal.  It  may  have 
been  his  appearance:  he  was  an  odd-looking  boy 
— dark,  almost  swarthy,  dreamy  and  absent  in 
manner,  and,  for  the  first  years  of  his  school  life, 
a  quite  typical  loafer.  Such  boys,  of  course,,  are 
not  common  in  a  big  school,  but  there  are  a  few 
such  everywhere.  One  never  knows  whether  this 
kind  will  write  a  successful  book,  or  paint  a  great 
picture,  or  go  to  the  devil — from  my  observation 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  last  career  is  the  most 
usual.  I  need  scarcely  say  that  such  boys  meet 
with  but  little  encouragement;  it  is  not  the  type 


The  Secret  Glory 

which  the  Public  School  exists  to  foster,  and  the 
boy  who  abandons  himself  to  morbid  introspec- 
tion is  soon  made  to  feel  pretty  emphatically  that 
he  is  matter  in  the  wrong  place.  Of  course,  one 
may  be  crushing  genius.  If  this  ever  happened 
it  would  be  very  unfortunate;  still,  in  all  com- 
munities the  minority  must  suffer  for  the  good  of 
the  majority,  and,  frankly,  I  have  always  been 
willing  to  run  the  risk.  As  I  have  hinted,  the 
particular  sort  of  boy  I  have  in  my  mind  turns 
out  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  to  be  not  a  genius, 
but  that  much  more  common  type — a  blackguard. 
"Well,  as  I  say,  1  was  curious  about  N.  I  was 
sorry  for  him,  too;  both  his  parents  were  dead, 
and  he  was  rather  in  the  position  of  the  poor 
fellows  who  have  no  home  life  to  look  forward  to 
when  the  holidays  are  getting  near.  And  his 
obstinacy  astonished  me;  in  most  cases  the 
pressure  of  public  opinion  will  bring  the  slackest 
loafer  to  a  sense  of  the  error  of  his  ways  before 
his  first  term  is  ended;  but  N.  seemed  to  hold 
out  against  us  all  with  a  sort  of  dreamy  resistance 
that  was  most  exasperating.  I  do  not  think  he 
can  have  had  a  very  pleasant  time.  His  general 
demeanour  suggested  that  of  a  sage  who  has  been 
cast  on  an  island  inhabited  by  a  peculiarly  repul- 
isive  and  degraded  tribe  of  savages,  and  I  need 
scarcely  say  that  the  other  boys  did  their  best  to 
make  him  realise  the  extreme  absurdity  of  such 


The  Secret  Glory 

behaviour.  He  was  clever  enough  at  his  work,, 
but  it  was  difficult  to  make  him  play  games,  and 
impossible  to  make  him  play  up.  He  seemed  to 
be  looking  through  us  at  something  else;  and 
neither  the  boys  nor  the  masters  liked  being 
treated  as  unimportant  illusions.  And  then,  quite 
suddenly,  N.  altered  completely.  I  believe  his 
housemaster,  worn  out  of  all  patience,  gave  him 
a  severe  thrashing;  at  any  rate,  the  change  was 
instant  and  marvellous. 

"I  remember  that  a  few  days  before  N.'s  trans- 
formation we  had  been  discussing  the  question  of 
the  cane  at  the  weekly  masters'  meeting.  I  had 
confessed  myself  a  very  half-hearted  believer  in 
the  efficacy  of  the  treatment.  I  forget  the  argu- 
ments that  I  used,  but  I  know  that  I  was  strongly 
inclined  to  favour  the  'Anti-baculist  Party,'  as 
the  Head  jocosely  named  it.  But  a  few  months 
later,,  when  N.'s  housemaster  pointed  out  N. 
playing  up  at  football  like  a  young  demon,  and 
then  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  reminded  me  of 
the  position  I  had  taken  up  at  the  masters'  meet- 
ing, there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  own  that  I 
had  been  in  the  wrong.  The  cane  had  certainly, 
in  this  case,  proved  itself  a  magic  wand;  the  some- 
time loafer  had  been  transformed  by  it  into  one 
of  the  healthiest  and  most  energetic  fellows  in 
the  whole  school.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  watch 
him  at  the  games,  and  I  remember  that  his  fast 

158 


The  Secret  Glory 

bowling  was  at  once  terrific  in  speed  and  peculiarly 
deadly  in  its  accuracy. 

"He  kept  up  this  deception,  for  deception 
it  was,  for  three  or  four  years.  He  was  just  go- 
ing up  to  Oxford,  and  the  whole  school  was  look- 
ing forward  to  a  career  which  we  knew  would  be 
quite  exceptional  in  its  brilliance.  His  scholar- 
ship papers  astonished  the  Balliol  authorities.  I 
remember  one  of  the  Fellows  writing  to  our  Head 
about  them  in  terms  of  the  greatest  enthusiasm, 
and  we  all  knew  that  N.'s  bowling  would  get  him 
into  the  University  Eleven  in  his  first  term. 
Cricketers  have  not  yet  forgotten  a  certain  per- 
formance of  his  at  the  Oval,  when,  as  a  poetic 
journalist  observed,  wickets  fell  before  him  as  ripe 
corn  falls  before  the  sickle.  N.  disappeared  in 
the  middle  of  term.  The  whole  school  was  in  a 
ferment;  masters  and  boys  looked  at  one  another 
with  wild  faces;  search  parties  were  sent  out  to 
scour  the  country;  the  police  were  communicated 
with;  on  every  side  one  heard  the  strangest  sur- 
mises as  to  what  had  happened.  The  affair  got 
into  the  papers;  most  people  thought  it  was  a 
case  of  breakdown  and  loss  of  memory  from  over- 
work and  mental  strain.  Nothing  could  be  heard 
of  N.,  till,  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  his  House- 
master came  into  our  room  looking,  as  I  thought, 
puzzled  and  frightened. 

"  'I  don't  understand,'  he  said.     'I've  had  this 

159 


The  Secret  Glory 

by  the  second  post.  It's  in  N.'s  handwriting. 
I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it.  It's  some  sort  of 
French,  I  suppose.' 

"He  held  out  a  paper  closely  written  in  N.'s  ex- 
quisite, curious  script,  which  always  reminded  me 
vaguely  of  some  Oriental  character.  The  mas- 
ters shook  their  heads  as  the  manuscript  went 
from  hand  to  hand,  and  one  of  them  suggested 
sending  for  the  French  master.  But,  as  it  hap- 
pened, I  was  something  of  a  student  of  Old 
French  myself,  and  I  found  I  could  make  out  the 
drift  of  the  document  that  N.  had  sent  his  master. 

"It  was  written  in  the  manner  and  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Rabelais.  It  was  quite  diabolically 
clever,  and  beyond  all  question  the  filthiest  thing 
I  have  ever  read.  The  writer  had  really  ex- 
ceeded his  master  in  obscenity,  impossible  as  that 
might  seem:  the  purport  of  it  all  was  a  kind  of 
nightmare  vision  of  the  school,  the  masters  and 
the  boys.  Everybody  and  everything  were  dis- 
torted in  the  most  horrible  manner,  seen,  we  might 
say,  through  an  abominable  glass,  and  yet  every 
feature  was  easily  recognisable;  it  reminded  me  of 
Swift's  disgusting  description  of  the  Yahoos,  over 
which  one  may  shudder  and  grow  sick,  but  which 
one  cannot  affect  to  misunderstand.  There  was 
a  fantastic  episode  which  I  remember  especially. 
One  of  us,  an  ambitious  man,  who  for  some  rea- 
son or  other  had  become  unpopular  with  a  few  of 

1 60 


The  Secret  Glory 

his  colleagues,  was  described  as  endeavouring  to 
climb  the  school  clock-tower,  on  the  top  of  which 
a  certain  object  was  said  to  be  placed.  The  ob- 
ject was  defended,  so  the  writer  affirmed,  by  'the 
Dark  Birds  of  Night,'  who  resisted  the  master's 
approach  in  all  possible  and  impossible  manners. 
Even  to  indicate  the  way  in  which  this  extraor- 
dinary theme  was  treated  would  be  utterly  out  of 
the  question;  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  master's  face,  turned  up  towards  the 
object  of  his  quest,  as  he  painfully  climbed  the 
wall.  I  have  never  read  even  in  the  most  filthy 
pages  of  Rabelais,  or  in  the  savagest  passages  of 
Swift,  anything  which  approached  the  revolting 
cruelty  of  those  few  lines.  They  were  com- 
pounded of  hell-fire  and  the  Cloaca  Maxima. 

"I  read  out  and  translated  a  few  of  the  least 
abominable  sentences.  I  can  hardly  say  whether 
the  feeling  of  disgust  or  that  of  bewilderment 
predominated  amongst  us.  One  of  my  colleagues 
stopped  me  and  said  they  had  heard  enough;  we 
stared  at  one  another  in  silence.  The  astounding 
ability,  ferocity  and  obscenity  of  the  whole  thing 
left  us  quite  dumbfounded,  and  I  remember  say- 
ing that  if  a  volcano  were  suddenly  to  belch  forth 
volumes  of  flame  and  filth  in  the  middle  of  the 
playing  fields  I  should  scarcely  be  more  aston- 
ished. And  all  this  was  the  work  of  N.,  whose 
brilliant  abilities  in  games  and  in  the  schools  were 

161 


The  Secret  Glory 

to  have  been  worth  many  thousands  a  year  to  X., 
as  one  of  us  put  it!  This  was  the  boy  that  for 
the  last  four  years  we  had  considered  as  a  great 
example  of  the  formative  influences  of  the  school ! 
This  was  the  N.  who  we  thought  would  have  died 
for  the  honour  of  the  school,  who  spoke  as  if  he 
could  never  do  enough  to  repay  what  X.  had  done 
for  him!  As  I  say,  we  looked  at  one  another 
with  faces  of  blank  amazement  and  'horror.  At 
last  somebody  said  that  N.  must  have  gone  mad, 
and  we  tried  to  believe  that  it  was  so,  for  madness, 
awful  calamity  as  it  is,  would  be  more  endurable 
than  sanity  under  such  circumstances  as  these. 
I  need  scarcely  say  that  this  charitable  hypothesis 
turned  out  to  be  quite  unfounded:  N.  was  per- 
fectly sane;  he  was  simply  revenging  himself  for 
the  suppression  of  his  true  feelings  for  the  four 
last  years  of  his  school  life.  The  'conversion' 
on  which  we  prided  ourselves  had  been  an  utter 
sham;  the  whole  of  his  life  had  been  an  elabo- 
rately organised  hypocrisy  maintained  with  un- 
failing and  unflinching  skill  term  after  term  and 
year  after  year.  One  cannot  help  wondering 
when  one  considers  the  inner  life  of  this  unhappy 
fellow.  Every  morning,  I  suppose,  he  woke  up 
with  curses  in  his  soul;  he  smiled  at  us  all  and 
joined  in  the  games  with  black  rage  devouring 
ihim.  So  far  as  one  can  say,  he  was  quite  sincere 
in  his  concealed  opinions  ajt  all  events.  The 

162 


The  Secret  Glory 

hatred,  loathing  and  contempt  of  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  the  place  displayed  in  that  extraordinary 
and  terrible  document  struck  me  as  quite  genuine; 
and  while  I  was  reading  it  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing of  his  eager,  enthusiastic  face  as  he  joined  with 
a  will  in  the  school  songs;  he  seemed  to  in- 
spire all  the  boys  about  him  with  something  of  his 
own  energy  and  devotion.  The  apparition  was 
a  shocking  one;  I  felt  that  for  a  moment  I  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  region  that  was  very  like 
hell  itself. 

"I  remember  that  the  French  master  contri- 
buted a  characteristic  touch  of  his  own.  Of 
course,  the  Headmaster  had  to  be  told  of  the 
matter,  and  it  was  arranged  that  M.  and  myself 
should  collaborate  in  the  unpleasant  task  of  mak- 
ing a  translation.  M.  read  the  horrible  stuff 
through  with  an  expression  on  his  face  that,  to 
my  astonishment,  bordered  on  admiration,  and 
when  he  laid  down  the  paper  he  said: 

"  'Eh  bien:  'M ai.tr e  Franqois  est  encore  en  vie, 
evidemment.  C'est  le  vrai  renouveau  de  la  Re- 
naissance; de  la  Renaissance  en  tres  mauvaise  hu- 
meur,  si  vous  voulez,  mais  de  la  Renaissance  tout- 
de-meme.  Si,  si;  c'est  de  la  cru  veritable,  je  vous 
assure.  Mais,  notre  bon  N.  est  un  Rabelais  qui  a 
habite  une  terre  afreiisement  seche.' 

"I  really  think  that  to  the  Frenchman  the  terri- 
ble moral  aspect  of  the  case  was  either  entirely 

163 


The  Secret  Glory 

negligible  or  absolutely  non-existent;  he  simply 
looked  on  N.'s  detestable  and  filthy  performance 
as  a  little  masterpiece  in  a  particular  literary 
genre.  Heaven  knows !  One  does  not  want  to 
be  a  Pharisee;  but  as  I  saw  M.  grinning  apprecia- 
tively over  this  dungheap  I  could  not  help  feeling 
that  the  collapse  of  France  before  Germany  of- 
fered no  insoluble  problem  to  the  historian. 

"There  is  little  more  to  be  said  as  to  this  ex- 
traordinary and  most  unpleasant  affair.  It  was 
all  hushed  up  as  much  as  possible.  No  further  at- 
tempts to  discover  N.'s  whereabouts  were  made. 
It  was  some  months  before  we  heard  by  indirect 
means  that  the  wretched  fellow  had  abandoned 
the  Balliol  Scholarship  and  the  most  brilliant  pros- 
pects in  life  to  attach  himself  to  a  company  of 
greasy  barnstormers — or  'Dramatic  Artists,'  as 
I  suppose  they  would  be  called  nowadays.  I  be- 
lieve that  his  subsequent  career  has  been  of  a 
piece  with  these  beginnings;  but  of  that  I  desire 
to  say  nothing." 

The  passage  has  been  quoted  merely  in  evi- 
dence of  the  great  success  with  which  Ambrose 
Meyrick  adapted  himself  to  his  environment  at 
Lupton.  Palmer,  the  writer,  who  was  a  very 
well-meaning  though  intensely  stupid  person,  has 
told  the  bare  facts  as  he  saw  them  accurately 
enough;  it  need  not  be  said  that  his  inferences  and 
deductions  from  the  facts  are  invariably  ridicu- 

164 


The  Secret  Glory 

lous.  He  was  a  well-educated  man;  but  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  he  thought  that  Rabelais,  Maria 
Monk,  Gay  Life  in  Paris  and  La  Terre  all  came 
to  much  the  same  thing. 

IV 

In  an  old  notebook  kept  by  Ambrose  Meyrick 
in  those  long-past  days  there  are  some  curious  en- 
tries which  throw  light  on  the  extraordinary  ex- 
periences that  befell  him  during  the  period  which 
poor  Palmer  has  done  his  best  to  illustrate.  The 
following  is  interesting: 

"I  told  her  she  must  not  come  again  for  a  long 
time.  She  was  astonished  and  asked  me  why — 
was  I  not  fond  of  her?  I  said  it  was  because  I 
was  so  fond  of  her,  that  I  was  afraid  that  if  I  saw 
her  often  I  could  not  live.  I  should  pass  away 
in  delight  because  our  bodies  are  not  meant  to 
live  for  long  in  the  middle  of  white  fire.  I  was 
lying  on  my  bed  and  she  stood  beside  it.  I  looked 
up  at  her.  The  room  was  very  dark  and  still.  I 
could  only  just  see  her  faintly,  though  she  was  so 
close  to  me  that  I  could  hear  her  breathing  quite 
well.  I  thought  of  the  white  flowers  that  grew 
in  the  dark  corners  of  the  old  garden  at  the  Wern, 
by  the  great  ilex  tree.  I  used  to  go  out  on  sum- 
mer nights  when  the  air  was  still  and  all  the  sky 
cloudy.  One  could  hear  the  brook  just  a  little, 

165 


The  Secret  Glory 

down  beyond  the  watery  meadow,  and  all  the 
woods  and  hills  were  dim.  One  could  not  see 
the  mountain  at  all.  But  I  liked  to  stand  by  the 
wall  and  look  into  the  darkest  place,  and  in  a  little 
time  those  flowers  would  seem  to  grow  out  of  the 
shadow.  I  could  just  see  the  white  glimmer  of 
them.  She  looked  like  the  flowers  to  me,  as  I 
lay  on  the  bed  in  my  dark  room. 

"Sometimes  I  dream  of  wonderful  things.  It 
is  just  at  the  moment  when  one  wakes  up;  one 
cannot  say  where  one  has  been  or  what  was  so 
wonderful,  but  you  know  that  you  have  lost  every- 
thing in  waking.  For  just  that  moment  you  knew 
everything  and  understood  the  stars  and  the  hills 
and  night  and  day  and  the  woods  and  the  old 
songs.  They  were  all  within  you,  and  you  were 
all  light.  But  the  light  was  music,  and  the  music 
was  violet  wine  in  a  great  cup  of  gold,  and  the 
wine  in  the  golden  cup  was  the  scent  of  a  June 
night.  I  understood  all  this  as  she  stood  beside 
my  bed  in  the  dark  and  stretched  out  her  hand  and 
touched  me  on  the  breast. 

"I  knew  a  pool  in  an  old,  old  grey  wood  a  few 
miles  from  the  Wern.  I  called  it  the  grey  wood 
because  the  trees  were  ancient  oaks  that  they  say 
must  have  grown  there  for  a  thousand  years,  and 
they  have  grown  bare  and  terrible.  Most  of  them 
are  all  hollow  inside  and  some  have  only  a  few 
boughs  left,  and  every  year,  they  say,  one  leaf 

1 66 


The  Secret  Glory 

less  grows  on  every  bough.  In  the  books  they 
are  called  the  Foresters'  Oaks.  If  you  stay  under 
them  you  feel  as  if  the  old  times  must  have  come 
again.  Among  these  trees  there  was  a  great  yew, 
far  older  than  the  oaks,  and  beneath  it  a  dark  and 
shadowy  pool.  I  had  been  for  a  long  walk, 
nearly  to  the  sea,  and  as  I  came  back  I  passed  this 
place  and,  looking  into  the  pool,  there  was  the 
glint  of  the  stars  in  the  water. 

"She  knelt  by  my  bed  in  the  dark,  and  I  could 
just  see  the  glinting  of  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at 
me — the  stars  in  the  shadowy  waterpool ! 

"I  had  never  dreamed  that  there  could  be  any- 
thing so  wonderful  in  the  whole  world.  My  fa- 
ther had  told  me  of  many  beautiful  and  holy  and 
glorious  things,  of  all  the  heavenly  mysteries  by 
which  those  who  know  live  for  ever,  all  the  things 
which  the  Doctor  and  my  uncle  and  the  other  silly 
clergymen  in  the  Chapel  .  .  .*  because  they  don't 
really  know  anything  at  all  about  them,  only  their 
names,  so  they  are  like  dogs  and  pigs  and  asses 
who  have  somehow  found  their  way  into  a  beauti- 
ful room,  full  of  precious  and  delicate  treasures. 
These  things  my  father  told  me  of  long  ago,  of 
the  Great  Mystery  of  the  Offering. 

"And  I  have  learned  the  wonders  of  the  old 

*A   highly  Rabelaisian   phrase   is  omitted. 
167 


The  Secret  Glory 

venerable  saints  that  once  were  marvels  in  our 
land,  as  the  Welch  poem  says,  and  of  all  the  great 
works  that  shone  around  their  feet  as  they  went 
upon  the  mountains  and  sought  the  deserts  of 
ocean.  I  have  seen  their  marks  and  writings  cut 
on  the  edges  of  the  rocks.  I  know  where  Sagram- 
nus  lies  buried  in  Wlad  Morgan.  And  I  shall 
not  forget  how  I  saw  the  Blessed  Cup  of  Teilo 
Agyos  drawn  out  from  golden  veils  on  Mynydd 
Mawr,  when  the  stars  poured  out  of  the  jewel, 
and  I  saw  the  sea  of  the  saints  and  the  spiritual 
things  in  Cor-arbennic.  My  father  read  out  to 
me  all  the  histories  of  Teilo,  Dewi,  and  Iltyd,  of 
their  marvellous  chalices  and  altars  of  Paradise 
from  which  they  made  the  books  of  the  Graal 
afterwards;  and  all  these  things  are  beautiful  to 
me.  But,  as  the  Anointed  Bard  said:  'With 
the  bodily  lips  I  receive  the  drink  of  mortal  vine- 
yards; with  spiritual  understanding  wine  from 
the  garths  of  the  undying.  May  Mihangel  inter- 
cede for  me  that  these  may  be  mingled  in  one  cup ; 
let  the  door  between  body  and  soul  be  thrown 
open.  For  in  that  day  earth  will  have  become 
Paradise,  and  the  secret  sayings  of  the  bards  shall 
be  verified.'  I  always  knew  what  this  meant, 
though  my  father  told  me  that  many  people 
thought  it  obscure  or,  rather,  nonsense.  But  it 
is  just  the  same  really  as  another  poem  by  the 
same  Bard,  where  he  says: 

1 68 


"  'My  sin  was  found  out,  and  when  the  old  women  on 

the  bridge  pointed  at  me  I  was  ashamed; 
I  was  deeply  grieved  when  the  boys  shouted  rebukes  as 

I  went  from  Caer-Newydd. 
How  is  it  that  I  was  not  ashamed  before  the  Finger  of 

the  Almighty? 

I  did  not  suffer  agony  at  the  rebuke  of  the  Most  High. 
The  fist  of  Rhys  Fawr  is  more  dreadful  to  me  than  the 

hand  of  God.' 

"He  means,  I  think,  that  our  great  loss  is  that 
we  separate  what  is  one  and  make  it  two;  and 
then,  having  done  so,  we  make  the  less  real  into 
the  more  real,  as  if  we  thought  the  glass  made  to 
hold  wine  more  important  than  the  wine  it  holds. 
And  this  is  what  I  had  felt,  for  it  was  only  twice 
that  1  had  known  wonders  in  my  body,  when  I 
saw  the  Cup  of  Telio  sant  and  when  the  moun- 
tains appeared  in  vision,  and  so,  as  the  Bard  says, 
the  door  is  shut.  The  life  of  bodily  things  is 
hard,  just  as  the  wineglass  is  hard.  We  can 
'touch  it  and  feel  it  and  see  it  always  before  us. 
The  wine  is  drunk  and  forgotten;  it  cannot  be 
held.  I  believe  the  air  about  us  is  just  as  sub- 
stantial as  a  mountain  or  a  cathedral,  but  unless 
we  remind  ourselves  we  think  of  the  air  as  noth- 
ing. It  is  not  hard.  But  now  I  was  in  Paradise, 
for  body  and  soul  were  molten  in  one  fire  and  went 
up  in  one  flame.  The  mortal  and  the  immortal 
vines  were  made  one.  Through  the  joy  of  the 

169 


The  Secret  Glory 

body  I  possessed  the  joy  of  the  spirit.  And  it 
was  so  strange  to  think  that  all  this  was  through 
a  woman — through  a  woman  I  had  seen  dozens 
of  times  and  had  thought  nothing  of,  except  that 
she  was  pleasant-looking  and  that  the  colour  of 
her  hair,  like  copper,  was  very  beautiful. 

"I  cannot  understand  it.  I  cannot  feel  that 
she  is  really  Nelly  Foran  who  opens  the  door  and 
waits  at  table,  for  she  is  a  miracle.  How  I 
should  have  wondered  once  if  I  had  seen  a  stone 
by  the  roadside  become  a  jewel  of  fire  and  glory ! 
But  if  that  were  to  happen,  it  would  not  be  so 
strange  as  what  happened  to  me.  I  cannot  see 
now  the  black  dress  and  the  servant's  cap  and 
apron.  I  see  the  wonderful,  beautiful  body  shi- 
ning through  the  darkness  of  my  room,  the  glim- 
mering of  the  white  flower  in  the  dark,  the  stars  in 
the  forest  pool. 

" 'O  gift  of  the  everlasting! 

0  wonderful  and  hidden  mystery! 
Many  secrets  have  been  vouchsafed  to  me. 

1  have  been   long  acquainted  with   the  wisdom  of  the 

trees ; 
Ash  and  oak  and  elm  have  communicated  to  me  from 

my  boyhood, 
The  birch  and  the  hazel  and  all  the  trees  of  the  green 

wood  have  not  been  dumb. 
There  is  a  caldron  rimmed  with  pearls  of  whose  gifts 

I  am  not  ignorant. 

I7O 


The  Secret  Glory 

I  will  speak  little  of  it ;  its  treasures  are  known  to  Bards. 

Many  went  on  the  search  of  Caer-Pedryfan, 

Seven  alone  returned  with  Arthur,  but  my  spirit  was 
present. 

Seven  are  the  apple  trees  in  a  beautiful  orchard. 

I  have  eaten  of  their  fruit,  which  is  not  bestowed  on 
Saxons. 

I  am  not  ignorant  of  a  Head  which  is  glorious  and 
venerable. 

It  made  perpetual  entertainment  for  the  warriors;  their 
joys  would  have  been  immortal. 

If  they  had  not  opened  the  door  of  the  south,  they  could 
have  feasted  for  ever, 

Listening  to  the  song  of  the  Fairy  Birds  of  Rhiannon. 

Let  not  anyone  instruct  me  concerning  the  Glassy  Isle, 

In  the  garments  of  the  saints  who  returned  from  it  were 
rich  odours  of  Paradise. 

All  this  I  knew  and  yet  my  knowledge  was  ignorance, 

For  one  day,  as  I  walked  by  Caer-rhiu  in  the  principal 
forest  of  Gwent, 

I  saw  golden  Myfanwy,  as  she  bathed  in  the  brook 
Tarogi. 

Her  hair  flowed  about  her.  Arthur's  crown  had  dis- 
solved into  a  shining  mist. 

I  gazed  into  her  blue  eyes  as  it  were  into  twin  heavens. 

All  the  parts  of  her  body  were  adornments  and  miracles. 

O  gift  of  the  everlasting! 

O  wonderful  and  hidden  mystery! 

When  I  embraced  Myfanwy  a  moment  became  immor- 
tality !'  * 

*  Translated  from  the  Welsh  verses  quoted  in  the  note-book. 
171 


The  Secret  Glory 

"And  yet  I  daresay  this  'golden  Myfanwy'  was 
what  people  call  'a  common  girl,'  and  perhaps 
she  did  rough,  hard  work,  and  nobody  thought 
anything  of  her  till  the  Bard  found  her  bathing 
in  the  brook  of  Tarogi.  The  birds  in  the  wood 
said,  when  they  saw  the  nightingale :  'This  is  a  con- 
temptible stranger !' 

"June  24.  Since  I  wrote  last  in  this  book  the 
summer  has  come.  This  morning  I  woke  up  very 
early,  and  even  in  this  horrible  place  the  air  was 
pure  and  bright  as  the  sun  rose  up  and  the  long 
beams  shone  on  the  cedar  outside  the  window. 
She  came  to  me  by  the  way  they  think  is  locked 
and  fastened,  and,  just  as  the  world  is  white  and 
gold  at  the  dawn,  so  was  she.  A  blackbird  began 
to  sing  beneath  the  window.  I  think  it  came  from 
far,  for  it  sang  to  me  of  morning  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  the  woods  all  still,  and  a  little  bright 
brook  rushing  down  the  hillside  between  dark 
green  alders,  and  air  that  must  be  blown  from 
heaven. 

There  is  a  bird  that  sings  in  the  valley  of  the  Soar. 
Dewi  and  Tegfeth  and  Cybi  preside  over  that  region; 
Sweet  is  the  valley,  sweet  the  sound  of  its  waters. 

There  is  a  bird  that  sings  in  the  valley  of  the  Soar; 
Its  voice  is  golden,  like  the  ringing  of  the  saints'  bells; 
Sweet  is  the  valley,  echoing  with  melodies. 

172 


The  Secret  Glory 

There  is  a  bird  that  sings  in  the  valley  of  the  Soar; 

Tegfeth  in  the  south  won  red  martyrdom. 

Her  song  is  heard  in  the  perpetual  choirs  of  heaven. 

There  is  a  bird  that  sings  in  the  valley  of  the  Soar; 
Dewi  in  the  west  had  an  altar  from  Paradise. 
He    taught    the    valleys    of    Britain    to    resound    with 
Alleluia. 

There  is  a  bird  that  sings  in  the  valley  of  the  Soar; 
Cybi  in  the  north  was  the  teacher  of  Princes. 
Through  him  Edlogan  sings  praise  to  heaven. 

There  is  a  bird  that  sings  in  the  valley  of  the  Soar 
When  shall  I  hear  again  the  notes  of  its  melody? 
When  shall  I  behold  once  more  Gwladys  in  that  valley?'  * 

*  The    following    translation    of    these    verses    appeared    in 
Poems  from  the  Old  Bards,  by  Taliesin,  Bristol,  1812: 

"In  Soar's  sweet  valley,  where  the  sound 
Of  holy  anthems  once  was  heard 
From  many  a  saint,  the  hills  prolong 
Only  the  music  of  the  bird. 

In  Soar's  sweet  valley,  where  the  brook 
With  many  a  ripple  flows  along, 
Delicious  prospects  meet  the  eye, 
The  ear  is  charmed  with  Phil'mel's  song. 

In  Soar's  sweet  valley  once  a  Maid, 
Despising  worldly  prospects  gay, 

173 


The  Secret  Glory 

Resigned  her  note  in  earthly  choirs 
Which  now  in  Heaven  must  sound  alway. 

"When  I  think  of  what  I  know,  of  the  wonders 
of  darkness  and  the  wonders  of  dawn,  I  cannot 
help  believing  that  I  have  found  something  which 
all  the  world  has  lost.  I  have  heard  some  of  the 
fellows  talking  about  women.  Their  words  and 
their  stories  are  filthy,  and  nonsense,  too.  One 
would  think  that  if  monkeys  and  pigs  could  talk 
about  their  she-monkeys  and  sows,  it  would  be 
just  like  that.  I  might  have  thought  that,  being 
only  boys,  they  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  were 

In  Soar's  sweet  valley  David  preached; 
His  Gospel  accents  so  beguiled 
The  savage  Britons,  that  they  turned 
Their  fiercest  cries  to  music  mild. 

In  Soar's  sweet  valley  Cybi  taught 
To  haughty  Prince  the  Holy  Law, 
The  way  to  Heaven  he  showed,  and  then 
The  subject  tribes  inspired  with  awe. 

In  Soar's  sweet  valley  still  the  song 
Of  Phil'mel  sounds  and  checks  alarms. 
But  when  shall  I  once  more  renew 
Those  heavenly  hours  in  Gladys'  arms?" 

"Taliesin"    was    the    pseudonym    of    an    amiable    clergyman, 
the  Reverend  Owen  Thomas,  for  many  years  curate  of  Llan- 

174 


The  Secret  Glory 

trisant.  He  died  in  1820,  at  the  great  age  of  eighty-four. 
His  original  poetry  in  Welsh  was  reputed  as  far  superior  to 
his  translations,  and  he  made  a  very  valuable  and  curious 
collection  of  "Cymric  Antiquities,"  which  remains  in  manu- 
script in  the  keeping  of  his  descendants. 

only  making  up  nasty,  silly  tales  out  of  their 
nasty,  silly  minds.  But  I  have  heard  the  poor 
women  in  the  town  screaming  and  scolding  at 
their  men,  and  the  men  swearing  back;  and  when 
they  think  they  are  making  love,  it  is  the  most 
horrible  of  all. 

"And  it  is  not  only  the  boys  and  the  poor 
people.  There  are  the  masters  and  their  wives. 
Everybody  knows  that  the  Challises  and  the  Red- 
burns  'fight  like  cats,'  as  they  say,  and  that  the 
Head's  daughter  was  'put  up  for  auction'  and 
bought  by  the  rich  manufacturer  from  Birming- 
ham— a  horrible,  fat  beast,  more  than  twice  her 
age,  with  eyes  like  pig's.  They  called  it  a  splen- 
did match. 

"So  I  began  to  wonder  whether  perhaps  there 
are  very  few  people  in  the  world  who  know; 
whether  the  real  secret  is  lost  like  the  great  city 
that  was  drowned  in  the  sea  and  only  seen  by 
one  or  two.  Perhaps  it  is  more  like  those  shining 
Isles  that  the  saints  sought  for,  where  the  deep 
apple  orchards  are,  and  all  the  delights  of  Para- 
dise. But  you  had  to  give  up  everything  and  get 
ino  a  boat  without  oar  or  sails  if  you  wanted  to 

175 


The  Secret  Glory 

find  Avalon  or  the  Glassy  Isle.  And  sometimes 
the  saints  could  stand  on  the  rocks  and  see  those 
Islands  far  away  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  and  smell 
the  sweet  odours  and  hear  the  bells  ringing  for 
the  feast,  when  other  people  could  see  and  hear 
nothing  at  all. 

"I  often  think  now  how  strange  it  would  be  if 
it  were  found  out  that  nearly  everybody  is  like 
those  who  stood  on  the  rocks  and  could  only  see 
the  waves  tossing  and  stretching  far  away,  and 
the  blue  sky  and  the  mist  in  the  distance.  I  mean, 
if  it  turned  out  that  we  have  all  been  in  the  wrong 
about  everything;  that  we  live  in  a  world  of  the 
most  wonderful  treasures  which  we  see  all  about 
us,  but  we  don't  understand,  and  kick  the  jewels 
into  the  dirt,  and  use  the  chalices  for  slop-pails 
and  make  the  holy  vestments  into  dish-cloths, 
while  we  worship  a  great  beast — a  monster,  with 
the  head  of  a  monkey,  the  body  of  a  pig  and  the 
hind  legs  of  a  goat,  with  swarming  lice  crawling 
all  over  it.  Suppose  that  the  people  that  they 
speak  of  now  as  'superstitious'  and  'half-savages' 
should  turn  out  to  be  in  the  right,  and  very  wise, 
while  we  are  all  wrong  and  great  fools!  It 
would  be  something  like  the  man  who  lived  in 
the  Bright  Palace.  The  Palace  had  a  hundred 
and  one  doors.  A  hundred  of  them  opened  into 
gardens  of  delight,  pleasure-houses,  beautiful 
bowers,  wonderful  countries,  fairy  seas,  caves  of 

176 


The  Secret  Glory 

gold  and  hills  of  diamonds,  into  all  the  most 
splendid  places.  But  one  door  led  into  a  cesspool, 
and  that  was  the  only  door  that  the  man  ever 
opened.  It  may  be  that  his  sons  and  his  grand- 
sons have  been  opening  that  one  door  ever  since, 
till  they  have  forgotten  that  there  are  any  others, 
so  if  anyone  dares  to  speak  of  the  ways  to  the 
garden  of  delight  or  the  hills  of  gold  he  is  called 
a  madman,  or  a  very  wicked  person. 

"July  15.  The  other  day  a  very  strange  thing 
happened.  I  had  gone  for  a  short  walk  out  of 
the  town  before  dinner  on  the  Dunham  road  and 
came  as  far  as  the  four  ways  where  the  roads 
cross.  It  is  rather  pretty  for  Lupton  just  there ; 
there  is  a  plot  of  grass  with  a  big  old  elm  tree  in 
the  middle  of  it,  and  round  the  tree  is  a  rough 
sort  of  seat,  where  tramps  and  such  people  are 
often  resting.  As  I  came  along  I  heard  some  sort 
of  music  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  tree; 
it  was  like  fairies  dancing,  and  then  there  were 
strange  solemn  notes  like  the  priests'  singing,  and 
a  choir  answered  in  a  deep,  rolling  swell  of  sound, 
and  the  fairies  danced  again;  and  I  thought  some- 
how of  a  grey  church  high  on  the  cliff  above  a 
singing  sea,  and  the  Fair  People  outside  dancing 
on  the  close  turf,  while  the  service  was  going  on 
all  the  while.  As  I  came  nearer  I  heard  the  sea 
waves  and  the  wind  and  the  cry  of  the  seagulls, 
and  again  the  high,  wonderful  chanting,  as  if  the 

177 


The  Secret  Glory 

fairies  and  the  rocks  and  the  waves  and  the  wild 
birds  were  all  subject  to  that  which  was  being 
done  within  the  church.  I  wondered  what  it 
could  be,  and  then  I  saw  there  was  an  old  ragged 
man  sitting  on  the  seat  under  the  tree,  playing 
the  fiddle  all  to  himself,  and  rocking  from  side 
to  side.  He  stopped  directly  he  saw  me,  and 
said: 

'  'Ah,  now,  would  your  young  honour  do  your- 
self the  pleasure  of  giving  the  poor  old  fiddler  a 
penny  or  maybe  two :  for  Lupton  is  the  very  hell 
of  a  town  altogether,  and  when  I  play  to  dirty 
rogues  the  Reel  of  the  Warriors,  they  ask  for 
something  about  Two  Obadiahs — the  devil's  black 
curse  be  on  them!  And  it's  but  dry  work  play- 
ing to  the  leaf  and  the  green  sod — the  blessing  of 
the  holy  saints  be  on  your  honour  now,  this  day, 
and  for  ever!  'Tis  but  a  scarcity  of  beer  that  I 
have  tasted  for  a  long  day,  I  assure  your  honour.' 

"I  had  given  him  a  shilling  because  I  thought 
his  music  so  wonderful.  He  looked  at  me 
steadily  as  he  finished  talking,  and  his  face 
changed.  I  thought  he  was  frightened,  he  stared 
so  oddly.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  ill. 

"'May  I  be  forgiven,'  he  said,  speaking  quite 
gravely,  without  that  wheedling  way  he  had  when 
he  first  spoke.  "May  I  be  forgiven  for  talking 
so  to  one  like  yourself;  for  this  day  I  have  begged 

178 


The  Secret  Glory 

money  from  one  that  is  to  gain  Red  Martyrdom; 
and  indeed  that  is  yourself.' 

"He  took  off  his  old  battered  hat  and  crossed 
himself,  and  I  stared  at  him,  I  was  so  amazed  at 
what  he  said.  He  picked  up  his  fiddle,  and  say- 
ing 'May  you  remember  me  in  the  time  of  your 
glory,'  he  walked  quickly  off,  going  away  from 
Lupton,  and  I  lost  sight  of  him  at  the  turn  of  the 
road.  I  suppose  he  was  half  crazy,  but  he  played 
wonderfully." 


179 


IV 


THE    materials    for    the    history    of    an 
odd  episode  in  Ambrose  Meyrick's  life 
are  to  be  found  in  a  sort  of  collection  he 
made  under  the  title  "Concerning  Gaiety."     The 
episode  in  question  dates  from  about  the  middle 
of  his  eighteenth  year. 

"I  do  not  know" — he  says —  "how  it  all  hap- 
pened. I  had  been  leading  two  eager  lives.  On 
the  outside  I  was  playing  games  and  going  up  in 
the  school  with  a  rush,  and  in  the  inside  I  was 
being  gathered  more  and  more  into  the  sanctuaries 
of  immortal  things.  All  life  was  transfigured  for 
me  into  a  radiant  glory,  into  a  quickening  and 
catholic  sacrament;  and,  the  fooleries  of  the 
school  apart,  I  had  more  and  more  the  sense 
that  I  was  a  participant  in  a  splendid  and  signifi- 
cant ritual.  I  think  I  was  beginning  to  be  a  little 
impatient  with  the  outward  signs:  I  think  I  had 
a  feeling  that  it  was  a  pity  that  one  had  to  drink 
wine  out  of  a  cup,  a  pity  that  kernels  seemed  to 
imply  shells.  I  wanted,  in  my  heart,  to  know 
nothing  but  the  wine  itself  flowing  gloriously  from 
vague,  invisible  fountains,  to  know  the  things 

1 80 


The  Secret  Glory 

'that  really  are'  in  their  naked  beauty,  without 
their  various  and  elaborate  draperies.  I  doubt 
whether  Ruskin  understood  the  motive  of  the 
monk  who  walked  amidst  the  mountains  with  his 
eyes  cast  down  lest  he  might  see  the  depths  and 
heights  about  him.  Ruskin  calls  this  a  narrow 
asceticism;  perhaps  it  was  rather  the  result  of  a 
very  subtle  aestheticism.  The  monk's  inner  vision 
might  be  fixed  with  such  rapture  on  certain  in- 
visible heights  and  depths,  that  he  feared  lest  the 
sight  of  their  visible  counterparts  might  disturb 
his  ecstasy.  It  is  probable,  I  think,  that  there 
is  a  point  where  the  ascetic  principle  and  the 
aesthetic  become  one  and  the  same.  The  Indian 
fakir  who  distorts  his  limbs  and  lies  on  spikes  is 
at  the  one  extreme,  the  men  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance  were  at  the  other.  In  each  case  the 
true  line  is  distorted  and  awry,  for  neither  system 
attains  either  sanctity  or  beauty  in  the  highest. 
The  fakir  dwells  in  surfaces,  and  the  Renaissance 
artist  dwelt  in  surfaces;  in  neither  case  is  there 
the  inexpressible  radiance  of  the  invisible  world 
shining  through  the  surfaces.  A  cup  of  Cellini's 
work  is  no  doubt  very  lovely;  but  it  is  not  beauti- 
ful in  the  same  way  as  the  old  Celtic  cups  are 
beautiful. 

"I  think  I  was  in  some  danger  of  going  wrong 
at  the  time  I  am  talking  about.  I  was  altogether 
too  impatient  of  surfaces.  Heaven  forbid  the 

181 


The  Secret  Glory 

notion  that  I  was  ever  in  danger  of  being  in  any 
sense  of  the  word  a  Protestant;  but  perhaps  I 
was  rather  inclined  to  the  fundamental  heresy  on 
which  Protestantism  builds  its  objection  to  what 
is  called  Ritual.  I  suppose  this  heresy  is  really 
Manichee;  it  is  a  charge  of  corruption  and  evil 
made  against  the  visible  universe,  which  is 
affirmed  to  be  not  Very  good,'  but  'very  bad' — 
or,  at  all  events,  too  bad  to  be  used  as  the  vehicle 
of  spiritual  truth.  It  is  extraordinary  by  the 
way,  that  the  thinking  Protestant  does  not  per- 
ceive that  this  principle  damns  all  creeds  and  all 
Bibles  and  all  teaching  quite  as  effectually  as  it 
damns  candles  and  chasubles — unless,  indeed,  the 
Protestant  thinks  that  the  logical  understanding 
is  a  competent  vehicle  of  Eternal  Truth,  and  that 
God  can  be  properly  and  adequately  defined  and 
explained  in  human  speech.  If  he  thinks  that,  he 
is  an  ass.  Incense,  vestments,  candles,  all  cere- 
monies, processions,  rites — all  these  things  are 
miserably  inadequate;  but  they  do  not  abound  in 
the  horrible  pitfalls,  misapprehensions,  errors 
which  are  inseparable  from  speech  of  men  used 
as  an  expression  of  the  Church.  In  a  savage 
dance  there  may  be  a  vast  deal  more  of  the  truth 
than  in  many  of  the  hymns  in  our  hymn-books. 

"After  all,  as  Martinez  said,  we  must  even  be 
content  with  what  we  have,  whether  it  be  censers 
or  syllogisms,  or  both.  The  way  of  the  censer  is 

182 


The  Secret  Glory 

certainly  the  safer,  as  I  have  said;  I  suppose 
because  the  ruin  of  the  external  universe  is  not 
nearly  so  deep  nor  so  virulent  as  the  ruin  of  men. 
A  flower,  a  piece  of  gold,  no  doubt  approach  their 
archetypes — what  they  were  meant  to  be — much 
more  nearly  than  man  does;  hence  their  appeal 
is  purer  than  the  speech  or  the  reasoning  of  men. 
"But  in  those  days  at  Lupton  my  head  was 
full  of  certain  sentences  which  I  had  lit  upon 
somewhere  or  other — I  believe  they  must  have 
been  translations  from  some  Eastern  book.  I 
knew  about  a  dozen  of  these  maxims;  all  I  can 
remember  now  are: 

"//  you  desire  to  be  Inebriated:  abstain  from  wine." 
"If  you  desire  beauty:  look  not  on  beautiful  things." 
"If  you  desire  to  see:  let  your  eyes  be  blindfolded." 
"If  you  desire  love:  refrain  from  the  Beloved." 

"I  expect  the  paradox  of  these  sayings  pleased 
me.  One  must  allow  that  if  one  has  the  inborn 
appetite  of  the  somewhat  subtle,  of  the  truth  not 
too  crudely  and  barely  expressed,  there  is  no 
such  atmosphere  as  that  of  a  Public  School  for 
sharpening  this  appetite  to  an  edge  of  ravening, 
indiscriminate  hunger.  Think  of  our  friend  the 
Colonel,  who  is  by  way  of  being  a  fin  gourmet; 
imagine  him  fixed  in  a  boarding-house  where  the 
meals  are  a  repeating  cycle  of  Irish  Stew,  Boiled 
Rabbit,  Cold  Mutton  and  Salt  Cod  (without 

183 


The  Secret  Glory 

oyster  or  any  other  sause !  Then  let  him  out  and 
place  him  in  the  Cafe  Anglais.  With  what  a  fierce 
relish  would  he  set  tooth  into  curious  and  sought- 
out  dishes!  It  must  be  remembered  that  I 
listened  every  Sunday  in  every  term  to  one  of  the 
Doctor's  sermons,  and  it  is  really  not  strange  that 
I  gave  an  eager  ear  to  the  voice  of  Persian  Wis- 
dom— as  I  think  the  book  was  called.  At  any 
rate,  I  kept  Nelly  Foran  at  a  distance  for  nine 
or  ten  months,  and  when  I  saw  a  splendid  sunset 
I  averted  my  eyes.  I  longed  for  a  love  purely 
spiritual,  for  a  sunset  of  vision. 

"I  caught  glimpses,  too,  I  think,  of  a  much 
more  profound  askesis  than  this.  I  suppose  you 
have  the  askesis  in  its  simplest,  most  rationalised 
form  in  the  Case  of  Bill  the  Engine-driver — I 
forget  in  what  great  work  of  Theologia  Moralis 
I  found  the  instance;  perhaps  Bill  was  really 
Quidam  in  the  original,  and  his  occupation  stated 
as  that  of  Nauarchus.  At  all  events,  Bill  is  fond 
of  four-ale;  but  he  had  perceived  that  two  pots 
of  this  beverage  consumed  before  a  professional 
journey  tended  to  make  him  rather  sleepy,  rather 
less  alert,  than  he  might  be  in  the  execution  of 
his  very  responsible  duties.  Hence  Bill,  consider- 
ing this,  wisely  contents  himself  with  one  pot 
before  mounting  on  his  cab.  He  has  deprived 
himself  of  a  sensible  good  in  order  that  an  equally 
sensible  but  greater  good  may  be  secured — in 

184 


The  Secret  Glory 

order  that  he  and  the  passengers  may  run  no 
risks  on  the  journey.  Next  to  this  simple  asceti- 
cism comes,  I  suppose,  the  ordinary  discipline  of 
the  Church — the  abandonment  of  sensible  goods 
to  secure  spiritual  ends,  the  turning  away  from 
the  type  to  the  prototype,  from  the  sight  of  the 
eyes  to  the  vision  of  the  soul.  For  in  the  true 
asceticism,  whatever  its  degree,  there  is  always 
action  to  a  certain  end,  to  a  perceived  good. 
Does  the  self-tormenting  fakir  act  from  this 
motive?  I  don't  know;  but  if  he  does  not,  his 
discipline  is  not  asceticism  at  all,  but  folly,  and 
impious  folly,  too.  If  he  mortifies  himself  merely 
for  the  sake  of  mortifying  himself;  then  he  de- 
files and  blasphemes  the  Temple.  This  in  paren- 
thesis. 

"But,  as  I  say,  I  had  a  very  dim  and  distant 
glimpse  of  another  region  of  the  askesis.  Mys- 
tics will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  there  are 
moments  when  the  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul  is 
seen  to  be  brighter  than  her  brightest  day;  there 
are  moments  when  it  is  necessary  to  drive  away 
even  the  angels  that  there  may  be  place  for  the 
Highest.  One  may  ascend  into  regions  so  remote 
from  the  common  concerns  of  life  that  it  becomes 
difficult  to  procure  the  help  of  analogy,  even  in 
the  terms  and  processes  of  the  Arts.  But  suppose 
a  painter — I  need  not  say  that  I  mean  an  artist — 
who  is  visited  by  an  idea  so  wonderful,  so  super- 

185 


The  Secret  Glory 

exalted  in  its  beauty  that  he  recognises  his  im- 
potence; he  knows  that  no  pigments  and  no  tech- 
nique can  do  anything  but  grossly  parody  his 
vision.  Well,  he  will  show  his  greatness  by  not 
attempting  to  paint  that  vision:  he  will  write  on 
a  bare  canvass  vidit  anima  sed  non  pinxit  manus. 
And  I  am  sure  that  there  are  many  romances 
which  have  never  been  written.  It  was  a  highly 
paradoxical,  even  a  dangerous  philosophy  that 
affirmed  God  to  be  rather  Non-Ens  than  Ens; 
but  there  are  moods  in  which  one  appreciates  the 
thought. 

"I  think  I  caught,  as  I  say,  a  distant  vision 
of  that  Night  which  excels  the  Day  in  its  splen- 
dour. It  began  with  the  eyes  turned  away  from 
the  sunset,  with  lips  that  refused  kisses.  Then 
there  came  a  command  to  the  heart  to  cease  from 
longing  for  the  dear  land  of  Gwent,  to  cease  from 
that  aching  desire  that  had  never  died  for  so 
many  years  for  the  sight  of  the  old  land  and  those 
hills  and  woods  of  most  sweet  and  anguished 
memory.  I  remember  once,  when  I  was  a  great 
lout  of  sixteen,  I  went  to  see  the  Lupton  Fair. 
I  always  liked  the  great  booths  and  caravans  and 
merry-go-rounds,  all  a  blaze  of  barbaric  green  and 
red  and  gold,  flaming  and  glowing  in  the  middle 
of  the  trampled,  sodden  field  against  a  background 
of  Lupton  and  wet,  grey  autumn  sky.  There 
were  country  folk  then  who  wore  smock-frocks 

1 86 


The  Secret  Glory 

and  looked  like  men  in  them,  too.  One  saw 
scores  of  these  brave  fellows  at  the  Fair:  dull, 
good  Jutes  with  flaxen  hair  that  was  almost  white, 
and  with  broad  pink  faces.  I  liked  to  see  them 
in  the  white  robe  and  the  curious  embroidery; 
they  were  a  note  of  wholesomeness,  an  embassage 
from  the  old  English  village  life  to  our  filthy 
'industrial  centre.'  It  was  odd  to  see  how  they 
stared  about  them;  they  wondered,  I  think,  at 
the  beastliness  of  the  place,  and  yet,  poor  fellows, 
they  felt  bound  to  admire  the  evidence  of  so  much 
money.  Yes,  they  were  of  Old  England;  they 
savoured  of  the  long,  bending,  broad  village 
street,  the  gable  ends,  the  grave  fronts  of  old 
mellow  bricks,  the  thatched  roofs  here  and  there, 
the  bulging  window  of  the  Village  shop,'  the  old 
church  in  decorous,  somewhat  dull  perpendicular 
among  the  elms,  and,  above  all,  the  old  tavern — 
that  excellent  abode  of  honest  mirth  and  honest 
beer,  relic  of  the  time  when  there  were  men,  and 
men  who  lived.  Lupton  is  very  far  removed 
from  Hardy's  land,  and  yet  as  I  think  of  these 
country-folk  in  their  smock-frocks  all  the  essence 
of  Hardy  is  distilled  for  me;  I  see  the  village 
street  all  white  in  snow,  a  light  gleaming  very 
rarely  from  an  upper  window,  and  presently,  amid 
ringing  bells,  one  hears  the  carol-singers  begin : 

'Remember  Adam's  fall, 
O  thou  man' 

187 


The  Secret  Glory 

"And  I  love  to  look  at  the  whirl  of  the  merry- 
go-rounds,  at  the  people  sitting  with  grave  enjoy- 
ment on  those  absurd  horses  as  they  circle  round 
and  round  till  one's  eyes  were  dazed.  Drums 
beat  and  thundered,  strange  horns  blew  raucous 
calls  from  all  quarters,  and  the  mechanical  music 
to  which  those  horses  revolved  belched  and  blazed 
and  rattled  out  its  everlasting  monotony,  checked 
now  and  again  by  the  shriek  of  the  steam  whistle, 
groaning  into  silence  for  a  while:  then  the  tune 
clanged  out  once  more,  and  the  horses  whirled 
round  and  round. 

"But  on  this  Fair  Day  of  which  I  am  speaking 
I  left  the  booths  and  the  golden,  gleaming  merry- 
go-rounds  for  the  next  field,  where  horses  were 
excited  to  brief  madness  and  short  energy.  I  had 
scarcely  taken  up  my  stand  when  a  man  close  by 
me  raised  his  voice  to  a  genial  shout  as  he  saw  a 
friend  a  little  way  off.  And  he  spoke  with  the 
beloved  accent  of  Gwent,  with  those  tones  that 
come  to  me  more  ravishing,  more  enchanting  than 
all  the  music  in  the  world.  I  had  not  heard  them 
for  years  of  weary  exile !  Just  a  phrase  or  two 
of  common  greeting  in  those  chanting  accents: 
the  Fair  passed  away,  was  whirled  into  nothing- 
ness, its  shouting  voices,  the  charging  of  horses, 
drum  and  trumpet,  clanging,  metalic  music — it 
rushed  down  into  the  abyss.  There  was  the 
silence  that  follows  a  great  peal  of  thunder;  it 

188 


The  Secret  Glory 

was  early  morning  and  I  was  standing  in  a  well- 
remembered  valley,  beside  the  blossoming  thorn 
bush,  looking  far  away  to  the  wooded  hills  that 
kept  the  East,  above  the  course  of  the  shining 
river.  I  was,  I  say,  a  great  lout  of  sixteen,  but 
the  tears  flooded  my  eyes,  my  heart  swelled  with 
its  longing. 

"Now,  it  seemed,  I  was  to  quell  such  thoughts 
as  these,  to  desire  no  more  the  fervent  sunlight 
on  the  mountain,  or  the  sweet  scent  of  the  dusk 
about  the  runnings  of  the  brook.  I  had  been  very 
fond  of  'going  for  walks' — walks  of  the  imagina- 
tion. I  was  afraid,  I  suppose,  that  unless  by 
constant  meditation  I  renewed  the  shape  of  the 
old  land  in  my  mind,  its  image  might  become  a 
blurred  and  fading  picture ;  I  should  forget  little 
by  little  the  ways  of  those  deep,  winding  lanes 
that  took  courses  that  were  almost  subterranean 
over  hill  and  vale,  by  woodside  and  waterside, 
narrow,  cavernous,  leaf-vaulted;  cool  in  the 
greatest  heats  of  summer.  And  the  wandering 
paths  that  crossed  the  fields,  that  led  one  down 
into  places  hidden  and  remote,  into  still  depths 
where  no  one  save  myself  ever  seemed  to  enter, 
that  sometimes  ended  with  a  certain  solemnity  at 
a  broken  stile  in  a  hedgerow  grown  into  a  thicket 
— within  a  plum  tree  returning  to  the  savage  life 
of  the  wood,  a  forest,  perhaps,  of  blue  lupins,  and 
a  great  wild  rose  about  the  ruined  walls  of  a 

1 80 


The  Secret  Glory 

house — all  these  ways  I  must  keep  in  mind  as  if 
they  were  mysteries  and  great  secrets,  as  indeed 
they  were.  So  I  strolled  in  memory  through  the 
Pageant  of  Gwent:  'lest  I  should  forget  the  region 
of  the  flowers,  lest  I  should  become  unmindful 
of  the  wells  and  the  floods.' 

"But  the  time  came,  as  I  say,  when  it  was 
represented  to  me  that  all  this  was  an  indulgence 
which,  for  a  season  at  least,  must  be  pretermitted. 
With  an  effort  I  voided  my  soul  of  memory  and 
desire  and  weeping;  when  the  idols  of  doomed 
Twyn-Barlwm,  and  great  Mynydd  Maen,  and  the 
silver  esses  of  the  Usk  appeared  before  me,  I  cast 
them  out;  I  would  not  meditate  white  Caerleon 
shining  across  the  river.  I  endured,  I  think,  the 
severest  pains.  De  Quincey,  that  admirable 
artist,  that  searcher  into  secrets  and  master  of 
mysteries,  has  described  my  pains  for  me  under 
the  figure  of  the  Opium  Eater  breaking  the  bonds 
of  his  vice.  How  often,  when  the  abominations 
of  Lupton,  its  sham  energies,  its  sham  morals,  its 
sham  enthusiasms,  all  its  battalia  of  cant  surged 
and  beat  upon  me,  have  I  been  sorely  tempted  to 
yield,  to  suffer  no  more  the  press  of  folly,  but 
to  steal  away  by  a  secret  path  I  knew,  to  dwell 
in  a  secure  valley  where  the  foolish  could  never 
trouble  me.  Sometimes  I  'fell,'  as  I  drank  deep 
then  of  the  magic  well-water,  and  went  astray  in 
the  green  dells  and  avenues  of  the  wildwood. 

190 


The  Secret  Glory 

Still  I  struggled  to  refrain  my  heart  from  these 
things,  to  keep  my  spirit  under  the  severe  disci- 
pline of  abstention;  and  with  a  constant  effort  I 
succeeded  more  and  more. 

"But  there  was  a  yet  deeper  depth  in  this 
process  of  catharsis.  I  have  said  that  sometimes 
one  must  expel  the  angels  that  God  may  have 
room;  and  now  the  strict  ordinance  was  given 
that  I  should  sever  myself  from  that  great  dream 
of  Celtic  sanctity  that  for  me  had  always  been 
the  dream,  the  innermost  shrine  in  which  I  could 
take  refuge,  the  house  of  sovran  medicaments 
where  all  the  wounds  of  soul  and  body  were 
healed.  One  does  not  wish  to  be  harsh;  we 
must  admit,  I  suppose,  that  moderate,  sensible 
Anglicanism  must  have  something  in  it — since 
the  absolute  sham  cannot  very  well  continue  to 
exist.  Let  us  say,  then,  that  it  is  highly  favour- 
able to  a  respectable  and  moral  life,  that  it  en- 
courages a  temperate  and  well-regulated  spirit 
of  devotion.  It  was  certainly  a  very  excellent 
and  (according  to  her  lights)  devout  woman  who, 
in  her  version  of  the  Anima  Christi  altered  'ine- 
briate me'  to  'purify  me,'  and  it  was  a  good 
cleric  who  hated  the  mulgate  reading,  calix  meus 
inebrians.  My  father  had  always  instructed  me 
that  we  must  conform  outwardly,  and  bear  with 
Dearly  Beloved  Brethren;  while  we  celebrated  in 
our  hearts  the  Ancient  Mass  of  the  Britons,  and 

191 


The  Secret  Glory 

waited  for  Cadwaladr  to  return.  I  reverenced 
his  teaching,  I  still  reverence  it,  and  agree  that 
we  must  conform;  but  in  my  heart  I  have  always 
doubted  whether  moderate  Anglicanism  be 
Christianity  in  any  sense,  whether  it  even  deserves 
to  be  called  a  religion  at  all.  I  do  not  doubt,  of 
course,  that  many  truly  religious  people  have  pro- 
fessed it:  I  speak  of  the  system,  and  of  the  atmos- 
phere which  emanates  from  it.  And  when  the 
Public  School  ethos  is  added  to  this — well,  the  re- 
sultant teaching  comes  pretty  much  to  the  dogma 
that  Heaven  and  the  Head  are  strict  allies.  One 
must  not  degenerate  into  ecclesiastical  contro- 
versy; I  merely  want  to  say  that  I  never  dreamed 
of  looking  for  religion  in  our  Chapel  services. 
No  doubt  the  Te  Deum  was  still  the  Te  Deum, 
but  the  noblest  of  hymns  is  degraded,  obscured, 
defiled,  made  ridiculous,  if  you  marry  it  to  a  tune 
that  would  disgrace  a  penny  gaff.  Personally, 
I  think  that  the  airs  on  the  piano-organs  are  much 
more  reverend  compositions  than  Anglican  chants, 
and  I  am  sure  that  many  popular  hymn  tunes  are 
vastly  inferior  in  solemnity  to  'E  Dunno  where  'e 
are. 

"No;  the  religion  that  led  me  and  drew  me 
and  compelled  me  was  that  wonderful  and  doubt- 
ful mythos  of  the  Celtic  Church.  It  was  the 
study — nay,  more  than  the  study,  the  enthusiasm 
— of  my  father's  life;  and  as  I  was  literally  bap- 

192 


The  Secret  Glory 

tized  with  water  from  a  Holy  Well,  so  spiritually 
the  great  legend  of  the  Saints  and  their  amazing 
lives  had  tinged  all  my  dearest  aspirations,  had 
become  to  me  the  glowing  vestment  of  the  Great 
Mystery.  One  may  sometimes  be  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  matter  of  a  tale  while  one  is  wearied 
or  sickened  by  the  manner  of  it;  one  may  have 
to  embrace  the  bright  divinity  on  the  horrid  lips 
of  the  serpent  of  Cos.  Or,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  manner — the  style — may  be  admirable,  and 
the  matter  a  mere  nothing  but  a  ground  for  the 
embroidery.  But  for  me  the  Celtic  Mythos  was 
the  Perfect  Thing,  the  King's  Daughter :  Omnis 
gloria  ejus  filite  Regis  ab,  intus,  in  fimbriis  aureis 
circumamicta  varietatibus.  I  have  learned  much 
more  of  this  great  mystery  since  those  days — I 
have  seen,  that  is,  how  entirely,  how  absolutely 
my  boyhood's  faith  was  justified;  but  even  then 
with  but  little  knowledge  I  was  rapt  at  the 
thought  of  this  marvellous  knight-errantry,  of  this 
Christianity  which  was  not  a  moral  code,  with 
some  sort  of  metaphorical  Heaven  held  out  as 
a  reward  for  its  due  observance,  but  a  great  mysti- 
cal adventure  into  the  unknown  sanctity.  Im-i 
agine  a  Bishop  of  the  Established  Church  getting) 
into  a  boat  without  oar  or  sails !  Imagine  him,  j 
if  you  can,  doing  anything  remotely  analagous  to  ( 
such  an  action.  Conceive  the  late  Archbishop 
Tait  going  apart  into  the  chapel  at  Lambeth  for 

193 


The  Secret  Glory 

three  days  and  three  nights;  then  you  may  well 
conceive  the  people  in  the  opposite  bank  being 
dazzled  with  the  blinding  supernatural  light 
poured  forth  from  the  chapel  windows.  Of 
course,  the  end  of  the  Celtic  Church  was  ruin  and 
confusion — but  Don  Quixote  failed  and  fell,  while 
Sancho  Panza  lived  a  fat,  prosperous  peasant. 
He  inherited,  I  think,  a  considerable  sum  from 
the  knight,  and  was,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  looked 
up  to  in  the  village. 

"Yes;  the  Celtic  Church  was  the  Company  of 
the  Great  Errantry,  of  the  Great  Mystery,  and, 
though  all  the  history  of  it  seems  but  a  dim  and 
shadowy  splendour,  its  burning  rose-red  lamp  yet 
glows  for  a  few,  and  from  my  earliest  childhood 
I  was  indoctrinated  in  the  great  Rite  of  Cor- 
arbennic.  When  I  was  still  very  young  I  had 
been  humoured  with  the  sight  of  a  wonderful 
Relic  of  the  Saints — never  shall  I  forget  that  ex- 
perience of  the  holy  magic  of  sanctity.  Every 
little  wood,  every  rock  and  fountain,  and  every 
running  stream  of  Gwent  were  hallowed  for  me 
by  some  mystical  and  entrancing  legend,  and  the 
thought  of  this  High  Spiritual  City  and  its  Blessed 
Congregation  could,  in  a  moment,  exercise  and 
drive  forth  from  me  all  the  ugly  and  foolish  and 
gibbering  spectres  that  made  up  the  life  of  that 
ugly  and  foolish  place  where  I  was  imprisoned. 

"Now,  with  a  sorrowful  farewell,  I  bade  good- 
194 


The  Secret  Glory 

bye  for  a  brief  time  (as  I  hoped  it  would  be)  to 
this  golden  legend;  my  heart  was  emptied  of  its 
treasures  and  its  curious  shows,  and  the  lights  on 
the  altars  were  put  out,  and  the  images  were 
strictly  veiled.  Hushed  was  the  chanting  in  the 
Sovereign  and  Perpetual  Choir,  hidden  were  the 
High  Hallows  of  the  Saints,  no  more  did  I  follow 
them  to  their  cells  in  the  wild  hills,  no  more  did 
I  look  from  the  rocks  in  the  west  and  see  them 
set  forth  for  Avalon.  Alas ! 

"A  great  silence  seemed  to  fall  upon  me,  the 
silence  of  the  depths  beneath  the  earth.  And 
with  the  silence  there  was  darkness.  Only  in  a 
hidden  place  there  was  reserved  the  one  taper — 
the  Light  of  Conformity,  of  a  perfect  submission, 
that  from  the  very  excess  of  sorrow  and  depriva- 
tion drew  its  secret  but  quintessential  joy.  I  am 
reminded,  now  that  I  look  back  upon  this  great 
purgation  of  the  soul,  of  the  story  that  I  once 
read  of  the  Arabic  Alchemist.  He  came  to  the 
Caliph  Haroun  with  a  strange  and  extravagant 
proposal.  Haroun  sat  in  all  his  splendour,  his 
viziers,  his  chamberlains,  his  great  officers  about 
him,  in  his  golden  court  which  displayed  all  the 
wonders  and  superfluities  of  the  East.  He  gave 
judgment;  the  wicked  were  punished,  the  virtuous 
were  rewarded;  God's  name  was  exalted,  the 
Prophet  was  venerated.  There  came  before  the 
Commander  of  the  Faithful  a  poor  old  man  in  the 

195 


The  Secret  Glory 

poor  and  ragged  robes  of  a  wandering  poet;  he 
was  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  his  years, 
and  his  entrance  was  like  the  entrance  of  misery. 
So  wretched  was  his  appearance  that  one  of  the 
chamberlains,  who  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
poets,  could  not  help  quoting  the  well-known 
verses: 

"  'Between  the  main  and  a  drop  of  rain  the  difference 

seen  is  nothing  great. 
The  sun  so  bright  and  the  taper's  light  are  alike  and 

one  save  in  pomp  and  state. 
In  the  grain  of  sand  and  in  all  the  land  what  may  ye 

arraign  as  disparate? 
A  crust  of  bread  and  a  King's  board  spread  will  hunger's 

lust  alike  abate. 
With  the  smallest  blade  or  with  host  arrayed  the  Ruler 

may  quench  his  gall  and  hate. 
A  stone  *  in  a  box  and  a  quarry  of  rocks  may  be  shown 

to  be  of  an  equal  freight. 
With  a  sentence  bold  or  with  gold  untold  the  lover  may 

hold  or  capture  his  mate. 

The  King  and  the  Bard  may  alike  be  debarred  from  the 
fold  of  the  Lord  Compassionate.' " 

"The  Commander  of  the  Faithful  praised  God, 
the  Merciful,  the  Compassionate,  the  King  of  the 
Day  of  Judgment,  and  caused  the  chamberlain 
to  be  handsomely  rewarded.  He  then  enquired 
of  the  old  man  for  what  reason  he  came  before 
him,  and  the  beggar  (as,  indeed,  he  seemed)  in- 

*A  diamond. 
196 


The  Secret  Glory 

formed  the  Caliph  that  he  had  for  many  years 
prosecuted  his  studies  in  magic,  alchemy,  astrol- 
ogy and  geomancy  and  all  other  curious  and  sur- 
prising arts,  in  Spain,  Grand  Cairo,  the  land  of 
the  Moors,  India,  China,  in  various  Cities  of  the 
Infidels;  in  fact,  in  every  quarter  of  the  world 
where  magicians  were  to  be  found.  In  proof  of 
his  proficiency  he  produced  a  little  box  which  he 
carried  about  him  for  the  purpose  of  his  geo- 
mantic  operations  and  asked  anyone  who  was 
willing  to  stand  forth,  that  he  might  hear  his 
whole  life,  past,  present  and  future.  The  Caliph 
ordered  one  of  his  officers  to  submit  himself  to 
this  ordeal,  and  the  beggar  having  made  the 
points  in  the  sand,  and  having  erected  the  figure 
according  to  the  rules  of  the  geomantic  art,  im- 
mediately informed  the  officer  of  all  the  most 
hidden  transactions  in  which  he  had  been  en- 
gaged, including  several  matters  which  this  officer 
thought  had  been  secrets  locked  in  his  own  breast. 
He  also  foretold  his  death  in  a  year's  time  from 
a  certain  herb,  and  so  it  fell  out,  for  he  was 
strangled  with  a  hempen  cord  by  order  of  the 
Caliph.  In  the  meantime,  the  Commander  of  the 
Faithful  and  all  about  him  were  astonished,  and 
the  Beggar  Magician  was  ordered  to  proceed  with 
his  story.  He  spoke  at  great  length,  and  every- 
one remarked  the  elegance  and  propriety  of  his 
diction,  which  was  wanting  in  no  refinement  of 

197 


The  Secret  Glory 

classical  eloquence.  But  the  sum  of  his  speech 
was  this — that  he  had  discovered  the  greatest 
wonder  of  the  whole  world,  the  name  of  which  he 
declared  was  Asrar,  and  by  this  talisman  he  said 
that  the  Caliph  might  make  himself  more  re- 
nowned than  all  the  kings  that  had  ever  reigned 
on  the  earth,  not  excepting  King  Solomon,  the  son 
of  David.  This  was  the  method  of  the  opera- 
tion which  the  beggar  proposed.  The  Comman- 
der of  the  Faithful  was  to  gather  together 
all  the  wealth  of  his  entire  kingdom,  omitting 
nothing  that  could  possibly  be  discovered;  and 
while  this  was  being  done  the  magician  said  that 
he  would  construct  a  furnace  of  peculiar  shape 
in  which  all  these  splendours  and  magnificences 
and  treasures  of  the  world  must  be  consumed  in 
a  certain  fire  of  art,  prepared  with  wisdom.  And 
at  last,  he  continued,  after  the  operation  had  en- 
dured many  days,  the  fire  being  all  the  while  most 
curiously  governed,  there  would  remain  but  one 
drop  no  larger  than  a  pearl,  but  glorious  as  the 
sun  to  the  moon  and  all  the  starry  heavens  and 
the  wonders  of  the  compassionate;  and  with  this 
drop  the  Caliph  Haroun  might  heal  all  the  sor- 
rows of  the  universe.  Both  the  Commander  of 
the  Faithful  and  all  his  viziers  and  officers  were 
stupefied  by  this  proposal,  and  most  of  the  as- 
semblage considered  the  beggar  to  be  a  madman. 
The  Caliph,  however,  asked  him  to  return  the 

198 


The  Secret  Glory 

next  day  in  order  that  his  plans  might  receive 
more  mature  consideration. 

"The  beggar  prostrated  himself  and  went  forth 
from  the  hall  of  audience,  but  he  returned  no 
more,  nor  could  it  be  discovered  that  he  had  been 
seen  again  by  anyone. 

'  'But  one  drop  no  larger  than  a  pearl,'  and 
'where  there  is  Nothing  there  is  All.'  I  have 
often  thought  of  those  sentences  in  looking  back 
on  that  time  when,  as  Chesson  said,  I  was  one  of 
those  'light-hearted  and  yet  sturdy  and  reliable 
young  fellows  to  whose  hands  the  honour  and 
safety  of  England  might  one  day  be  committed.' 
I  cast  all  the  treasures  I  possessed  into  the 
alembic;  again  and  again  they  were  rectified  by 
the  heat  of  the  fire  'most  curiously  governed'; 
I  saw  the  'engendering  of  the  Crow'  black  as 
pitch,  the  flight  of  the  Dove  with  Silver  Wings, 
and  at  last  Sol  rose  red  and  glorious,  and  I  fell 
down  and  gave  thanks  to  heaven  for  this  most 
wonderful  gift,  the  'Sun  blessed  of  the  Fire.'  I 
had  dispossessed  myself  of  all,  and  I  found  that 
I  possessed  all;  I  had  thrown  away  all  the  money 
in  my  purse,  and  I  was  richer  than  I  had  ever 
been;  I  had  died,  and  I  had  found  a  new  life  in 
the  land  of  the  living. 

"It  is  curious  that  I  should  now  have  to  ex- 
plain the  pertinency  of  all  that  I  have  written  to 
the  title  of  this  Note — concerning  Gaiety.  It 

199 


The  Secret  Glory 

should  not  be  necessary.  The  chain  of  thought  is 
almost  painfully  obvious.  But  I  am  afraid  it  is 
necessary. 

"Well:  I  once  read  an  interesting  article  in 
the  daily  paper.  It  was  written  apropos  of  some 
Shakespearean  celebrations  or  other,  and  its  pur- 
port was  that  modern  England  was  ever  so  much 
happier  than  mediaeval  or  Elizabethian  England. 
It  is  possible  that  an  acute  logician  might  find 
something  to  say  on  this  thesis;  but  my  interest 
lay  in  the  following  passages,  which  I  quote : 

"  'Merrie  England,'  with  its  maypoles  and  its 
Whitsun  Ales,  and  its  Shrove-tide  jousts  and 
junketings  is  dead  for  us,  from  the  religious 
point  of  view.  The  England  that  has  survived 
is,  after  all,  a  greater  England  still.  It  is 
Puritan  England.  .  .  .  The  spirit  has  gone. 
Surely  it  is  useless  to  revive  the  form.  Where- 
fore should  the  May  Queen  be  "holy,  wise,  and 
fair,"  if  not  to  symbolise  the  Virgin  Mary? 
And  as  for  Shrove-tide,  too,  what  point  in 
jollity  without  a  fast  to  follow?' 

"The  article  is  not  over-illuminating,  but  I 
think  the  writer  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
truth  that  there  is  a  deep  relation  between  Mirth 
and  Sanctity;  that  no  real  mirth  is  possible  with- 
out the  apprehension  of  the  mysteries  as  its  ante- 

2OO 


cedent.  The  fast  and  the  feast  are  complemen- 
tary terms.  He  is  right;  there  is  no  point  in 
jollity  unless  there  is  a  fast  or  something  of  the 
nature  of  a  fast  to  follow — though,  of  course, 
there  is  nothing  to  hinder  the  most  advanced 
thinker  from  drinking  as  much  fusel-oil  and  raw 
Russian  spirit  as  he  likes.  But  the  result  of  this 
course  is  not  real  mirth  or  jollity;  it  is  perhaps 
more  essentially  dismal  than  a  'Tea'  amongst 
the  Protestant  Dissenters.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  true  gaiety  is  only  possible  to  those  who 
have  fasted;  and  now  perhaps  it  will  be  seen  that 
I  have  been  describing  the  preparations  for  a 
light-hearted  festival. 

"The  cloud  passed  away  from  me,  the  restric- 
tions and  inhibitions  were  suddenly  removed,  and 
I  woke  up  one  morning  in  dancing,  bubbling 
spirits,  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  racing 
with  new  life,  my  nerves  tingling  and  thrilling 
with  energy.  I  laughed  as  I  awoke;  I  was  con- 
scious that  I  was  to  engage  in  a  strange  and 
fantastic  adventure,  though  I  had  not  the  re- 
motest notion  of  what  it  was  to  be." 

II 

Ambrose  Meyrick's  adventure  was  certainly  of 
the  fantastic  order.  His  fame  had  long  been 
established  on  a  sure  footing  with  his  uncle  and 

2OI 


The  Secret  Glory 

with  everybody  else,  and  Mr.  Horbury  had  con- 
gratulated him  with  genuine  enthusiasm  on  his 
work  in  the  examinations — the  Summer  term  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  Mr.  Horbury  was  Ambrose's 
trustee,  and  he  made  no  difficulty  about  signing 
a  really  handsome  cheque  for  his  nephew's  holi- 
day expenses  and  outfit.  "There,"  he  said  "you 
ought  to  be  able  to  do  pretty  well  on  that. 
Where  do  you  think  of  going?" 

Ambrose  said  that  he  had  thought  of  North 
Devon,  of  tramping  over  Exmoor,  visiting  the 
Doone  country,  and  perhaps  of  working  down  to 
Dartmoor. 

"You  couldn't  do  better.  You  ought  to  try 
your  hand  at  fishing:  wonderful  sport  in  some 
of  those  streams.  It  mightn't  come  off  at  first, 
but  with  your  eye  and  sense  of  distance  you'll 
soon  make  a  fine  angler.  If  you  do  have  a  turn 
at  the  trout,  get  hold  of  some  local  man  and  make 
him  give  you  .a  wrinkle  or  two.  It's  no  good 
getting  your  flies  from  town.  Now,  when  I  was 
fishing  in  Hampshire " 

Mr.  Horbury  went  on;  but  the  devil  of  gaiety 
had  already  dictated  a  wonderful  scheme  to 
Ambrose,  and  that  night  he  informed  Nelly  Koran 
that  she  must  alter  her  plans;  she  was  to  come 
with  him  to  France  instead  of  spending  a  fort- 
night at  Blackpool.  He  carried  out  this  mad 
device  with  an  ingenuity  that  poor  Mr.  Palmer 

2O2 


The  Secret  Glory 

would  certainly  have  called  "diabolical."  In  the 
first  place,  there  was  to  be  a  week  in  London — 
for  Nelly  must  have  some  clothes ;  and  this  week 
began  as  an  experience  of  high  delight.  It  was 
not  devoid  of  terror,  for  masters  might  be  abroad, 
and  Ambrose  did  not  wish  to  leave  Lupton  for 
some  time.  However,  they  neither  saw  nor  were 
seen.  Arriving  at  St.  Pancras,  the  luggage  was 
left  in  the  station,  and  Ambrose,  who  had  studied 
the  map  of  London,  stood  for  a  while  on  the 
pavement  outside  Scott's  great  masterpiece  of 
architecture  and  considered  the  situation  with 
grave  yet  humorous  deliberation.  Nelly  proved 
herself  admirably  worthy  of  the  adventure;  its 
monstrous  audacity  appealed  to  her,  and  she  was 
in  a  state  of  perpetual  subdued  laughter  for  some 
days  after  their  arrival.  Meyrick  looked  about 
him  and  found  that  the  Euston  Road,  being 
squalid  and  noisy,  offered  few  attractions;  and 
with  sudden  resolution  he  took  the  girl  by  the 
arm  and  steered  into  the  heart  of  Bloomsbury. 
In  this  charmingly  central  and  yet  retired  quarter 
they  found  rooms  in  a  quiet  byway  which,  oddly 
enough,  looked  on  a  green  field;  and  under  the 
pleasant  style  of  Mr.  and  Mr.  Lupton  they  par- 
took of  tea  while  the  luggage  was  fetched  by 
somebody — probably  a  husband — who  came  with 
a  shock  of  red,  untidy  hair  from  the  dark  bowels 
of  the  basement.  They  screamed  with  mirth  over 

203 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  meal.  Mr.  Horbury  had  faults,  but  he  kept 
a  good  table  for  himself,  his  boys  and  his  ser- 
vants; and  the  exotic,  quaint  flavour  of  the 
"bread"  and  "butter"  seemed  to  these  two  young 
idiots  exquisitely  funny.  And  the  queer,  faint, 
close  smell,  too,  of  the  whole  house — it  rushed 
out  at  one  when  the  hall  door  was  opened:  it  was 
heavy,  and  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 

"I  never  know,"  Ambrose  used  to  say  after- 
wards, "whether  to  laugh  or  cry  when  I  have 
been  away  for  some  time  from  town,  and  come 
back  and  smell  that  wonderful  old  London  aroma. 
I  don't  believe  it's  so  strong  or  so  rare  as  it  used 
to  be;  I  have  been  disappointed  once  or  twice 
in  houses  in  quite  shabby  streets.  It  was  there, 
of  course,  but — well,  if  it  were  a  vintage  wine  I 
should  say  it  was  a  second  growth  of  a  very  poor 
year — Margaux,  no  doubt,  but  a  Margaux  of  one 
of  those  very  indifferent  years  in  the  early 
'seventies.  Or  it  may  be  like  the  smell  of  grease- 
paints; one  doesn't  notice  it  after  a  month  or 
two.  But  I  don't  think  it  is. 

"Still,"  he  would  go  on,  "I  value  what  I  can 
smell  of  it.  It  brings  back  to  me  that  afternoon, 
that  hot,  choking  afternoon  of  ever  so  many  years 
ago.  It  was  really  tremendously  hot — ninety-two 
degrees,  I  think  I  saw  in  the  paper  the  next  day 
— and  when  we  got  out  at  St.  Pancras  the  wind 
came  at  one  like  a  furnace  blast.  There  was  no 

204 


The  Secret  Glory 

sun  visible ;  the  sky  was  bleary — a  sort  of  sickly, 
smoky  yellow,  and  the  burning  wind  came  in 
gusts,  and  the  dust  hissed  and  rattled  on  the 
pavement.  Do  you  know  what  a  low  public- 
house  smells  like  in  London  on  a  hot  afternoon? 
Do  you  know  what  London  bitter  tastes  like  on 
such  a  day — the  publican  being  evidently  careful 
of  his  clients'  health,  and  aware  of  the  folly  of 
drinking  cold  beverages  during  a  period  of  ex- 
treme heat?  I  do.  Nelly,  poor  dear,  had  warm 
lemonade,  and  I  had  warm  beer — warm  chemicals, 
I  mean.  But  the  odour!  Why  doesn't  some 
scientific  man  stop  wasting  his  time  over  a  lot 
of  useless  rubbish  and  discover  a  way  of  bottling 
the  odour  of  the  past? 

"Ah !  but  if  he  did  so,  in  a  phial  of  rare  crystal 
with  a  stopper  as  secure  as  the  seal  of  Solimaun 
ben  Daoud  would  I  preserve  one  most  precious 
scent,  inscribing  on  the  seal,  within  a  perfect 
pentagram,  the  mystic  legend  'No.  15,  Little 
Russell  Row.'  " 

The  cat  had  come  in  with  the  tea-tray.  He 
was  a  black  cat,  not  very  large,  with  a  decent 
roundness  of  feature,  and  yet  with  a  suggestion 
of  sinewy  skinniness  about  him — the  Skinniness 
of  the  wastrel,  not  of  the  poor  starveling.  His 
bright  green  eyes  had,  as  Ambrose  observed,  the 
wisdom  of  Egypt;  on  his  tomb  should  be  in- 
scribed "The  Justified  in  Sekht."  He  walked 

205 


The  Secret  Glory 

solemnly  in  front  of  the  landlady,  his  body  de- 
scribing strange  curves,  his  tail  waving  in  the  air, 
and  his  ears  put  back  with  an  expression  of  in- 
tense cunning.  He  seemed  delighted  at  "the  let," 
and  when  Nelly  stroked  his  back  he  gave  a  loud 
shriek  of  joy  and  made  known  his  willingness  to 
take  a  little  refreshment. 

They  laughed  so  heartily  over  their  tea  that 
when  the  landlady  came  in  to  clear  the  things 
away  they  were  still  bubbling  over  with  aimless 
merriment. 

"I  likes  to  see  young  people  'appy,"  she  said 
pleasantly,  and  readily  provided  a  latchkey  in 
case  they  cared  to  come  in  rather  late.  She  told 
them  a  good  deal  of  her  life:  she  had  kept 
lodgings  in  Judd  Street,  near  King's  Cross — a 
nasty,  noisy  street,  she  called  it — and  she  seemed 
to  think  the  inhabitants  a  low  lot.  She  had  to 
do  with  all  sorts,  some  good  some  bad,  and  the 
business  wasn't  what  it  had  been  in  her  mother's 
day. 

They  sat  a  little  while  on  the  sofa,  hand  in  hand 
still  consumed  with  the  jest  of  their  being  there 
at  all,  and  imagining  grotesque  entrances  of  Mr. 
Horbury  or  Dr.  Chesson.  Then  they  went  out 
to  wander  about  the  streets,  to  see  London  easily, 
merrily,  without  bothering  the  Monument,  or  the 
British  Museum,  or  Madame  Tussaud's — finally, 
to  get  something  to  eat,  they  didn't  know  when 

206 


The  Secret  Glory 

or  where  or  how,  and  they  didn't  in  the  least 
care  1  There  was  one  "sight"  they  were  not 
successful  in  avoiding:  they  had  not  journeyed 
far  before  the  great  portal  of  the  British  Museum 
confronted  them,  grandiose  and  gloomy.  So,  by 
the  sober  way  of  Great  Russell  Street,  they  made 
their  way  into  Tottenham  Court  Road  and, 
finally,  into  Oxford  Street.  The  shops  were 
bright  and  splendid,  the  pavement  was  crowded 
with  a  hurrying  multitude,  as  it  seemed  to  the 
country  folk,  though  it  was  the  dullest  season  of 
the  year.  It  was  a  great  impression — decidedly 
London  was  a  wonderful  place.  Already  Am- 
brose felt  a  curious  sense  of  being  at  home  in  it; 
it  was  not  beautiful,  but  it  was  on  the  immense 
scale;  it  did  something  more  than  vomit  stinks 
into  the  air,  poison  into  the  water  and  rows  of 
workmen's  houses  on  the  land.  They  wandered 
on,  and  then  they  had  the  fancy  that  they  would 
like  to  explore  the  regions  to  the  south;  it  was  so 
impossible,  as  Ambrose  said,  to  know  where  they 
would  find  themselves  eventually.  He  carefully 
lost  himself  within  a  few  minutes  of  Oxford 
Street.  A  few  turnings  to  right  and  then  to  left; 
,the  navigation  of  strange  alleys  soon  left  them  in 
the  most  satisfactory  condition  of  bewilderment; 
the  distinctions  of  the  mariner's  compass,  its 
pedantry  of  east  and  west,  north  and  south,  were 
annihilated  and  had  ceased  to  be;  it  was  an  ad- 

207 


The  Secret  Glory 

venture  in  a  trackless  desert,  in  the  Australian 
bush,  but  on  safer  ground  and  in  an  infinitely 
more  entertaining  scene.  At  first  they  had 
passed  through  dark  streets,  Georgian  and 
Augustan  ways,  gloomy  enough,  and  half  de- 
serted; there  were  grave  houses,  with  many 
stories  of  windows,  now  reduced  to  printing 
offices,  to  pickle  warehouses,  to  odd  crafts  such  as 
those  of  the  metal  assayer,  the  crucible  maker, 
the  engraver  of  seals,  the  fabricator  of  Boule. 
But  how  wonderful  it  was  to  see  the  actual  place 
where  those  things  were  done !  Ambrose  had 
read  of  such  arts,  but  had  always  thought  of 
them  as  existing  in  a  vague  void — if  some  of 
them  even  existed  at  all  in  those  days :  but  there  in 
the  windows  were  actual  crucibles,  strange-looking 
curvilinear  pots  of  grey-yellowish  ware,  the 
veritable  instruments  of  the  Magnum  Opus,  in- 
ventions of  Arabia.  He  was  no  longer  aston- 
ished when  a  little  farther  he  saw  a  harpsichord, 
which  had  only  been  a  name  to  him,  a  beautiful 
looking  thing,  richly  inlaid,  with  its  date — 1780 
— inscribed  on  a  card  above  it.  It  was  now 
utterly  wonderland:  he  could  very  likely  buy 
armour  round  the  corner;  and  he  had  scarcely 
formed  the  thought  when  a  very  fine  six- 
teenth-century suit,  richly  damascened,  rose  up 
before  him,  handsomely  displayed  between  two 
black  jacks.  These  were  the  comparatively  silent 

208 


The  Secret  Glory 

streets;  but  they  turned  a  corner,  and  what  a 
/change!  All  the  roadway,  not  the  pavement 
only,  seemed  full  of  a  strolling,  chatting,  laughing 
mob  of  people :  the  women  were  bareheaded,  and 
one  heard  nothing  but  the  roll  of  the  French  "r," 
torrents  of  sonorous  sound  trolled  out  with  the 
music  of  happy  song.  The  papers  in  the  shops 
were  all  French,  ensigns  on  every  side  proclaimed 
"Vins  Fins,"  "Beaune  Superieur" :  the  tobacco- 
nists kept  their  tobacco  in  square  blue,  yellow  and 
brown  packets;  "Charcuterie'  made  a  brave 
and  appetising  show.  And  here  was  a  "Cafe 
Restaurant:  au  chateau  de  Chinon."  The  name 
was  enough;  they  could  not  dine  elsewhere,  and 
Ambrose  felt  that  he  was  honouring  the  memory 
of  the  great  Rabelais. 

It  was  probably  not  a  very  good  dinner.  It 
was  infinitely  better  than  the  Soho  dinner  of  these 
days,  for  the  Quarter  had  hardly  begun  to  yield 
to  the  attack  of  Art,  Intellect  and  the  Suburbs 
which,  between  them,  have  since  destroyed  the 
character  and  unction  of  many  a  good  cook-shop. 
Ambrose  only  remembered  two  dishes;  the  pieds 
de  pore  grilles  and  the  salad.  The  former  he 
thought  both  amusing  and  delicious,  and  the  latter 
was  strangely  and  artfully  compounded  of  many 
herbs,  of  little  vinegar,  of  abundant  Provengal  oil, 
with  the  chapon,  or  crust  rubbed  with  garlic,  re- 
posing at  the  bottom  of  the  bowl  after  Madame 

209 


The  Secret  Glory 

had  "tormented"  the  ingredients — the  salad  was 
a  dish  from  Fairyland.  There  be  no  such  salads 
now  in  all  the  land  of  Soho. 

"Let  me  celebrate,  above  all,  the  little  red 
wine,"  says  Ambrose  in  a  brief  dithyrambic  note. 
"Not  in  any  mortal  vineyard  did  its  father  grape 
ripen;  it  was  not  nourished  by  the  warmth  of  the 
visible  sun,  nor  were  the  rains  that  made  it  swell 
common  waters  from  the  skies  above  us.  Not 
even  in  the  Chinonnais,  sacred  earth  though  that 
be,  was  the  press  made  that  caused  its  juices  to  be 
poured  into  the  cuvet  nor  was  the  humming  of  its 
fermentation  heard  in  any  of  the  good  cellars 
of  the  lower  Touraine.  But  in  that  region  which 
Keats  celebrates  when  he  sings  the  'Mermaid 
Tavern'  was  this  juice  engendered — the  vineyard 
lay  low  down  in  the  south,  among  the  starry 
plains  where  is  the  Terra  Turonensis  Celestis, 
that  unimaginable  country  which  Rabelais  be- 
held in  his  vision  where  mighty  Gargantua 
drinks  from  inexhaustible  vats  eternally,  where 
Pantagruel  is  athirst  for  evermore,  though  he  be 
satisfied  continually.  There,  in  the  land  of  the 
^Crowned  Immortal  Tosspots  was  that  wine  of 
ours  vintaged,  red  with  the  rays  of  the  Dog-star, 
made  magical  by  the  influence  of  Venus,  fertilised 
by  the  happy  aspect  of  Mercury.  O  rare,  super- 
abundant and  most  excellent  juice,  fruit  of  all 
fortunate  stars,  by  thee  were  we  translated, 

210 


The  Secret  Glory 

exalted  into  the  fellowship  of  that  Tavern  of 
which  the  old  poet  writes:  Mihi  est  propositum 
in  Taberna  mori!" 

There  were  few  English  people  in  the  Chateau 
de  Chinon — indeed,  it  is  doubtful  whether  there 
>was  more  than  one — the  menage  Lupton  excepted. 
This  one  compatriot  happened  to  be  a  rather  re- 
markable man — it  was  Carrol.  He  was  not  in 
the  vanguard  of  anything;  he  knew  no  journalists 
and  belonged  to  no  clubs;  he  was  not  even 
acquainted  in  the  most  distant  manner  with  a 
single  person  who  could  be  called  really  influential 
or  successful.  He  was  an  obscure  literary  worker, 
who  published  an  odd  volume  every  five  or  six 
years:  now  and  then  he  got  notices,  when  there 
was  no  press  of  important  stuff  in  the  offices,  and 
sometimes  a  kindly  reviewer  predicted  that  he 
would  come  out  all  right  in  time,  though  he  had 
still  much  to  learn.  About  a  year  before  he  died, 
an  intelligent  reading  public  was  told  that  one 
or  two  things  of  his  were  rather  good;  then,  on 
his  death,  it  was  definitely  discovered  that  the 
five  volumes  of  verse  occupied  absolutely  unique 
ground,  that  a  supreme  poet  had  been  taken  from 
us,  a  poet  who  had  raised  the  English  language 
into  a  fourth  dimension  of  melody  and  magic. 
The  intelligent  reading  public  read  him  no  more 
than  they  ever  did,  but  they  buy  him  in  edition 
after  edition,  from  large  quarto  to  post  octavo; 

211 


The  Secret  Glory 

they  buy  him  put  up  into  little  decorated  boxes; 
they  buy  him  on  Japanese  vellum;  they  buy  him 
illustrated  by  six  different  artists;  they  discuss 
no  end  of  articles  about  him;  they  write  their 
names  in  the  Carrol  Birthday  Book;  they  set  up 
the  Carrol  Calendar  in  their  boudoirs;  they  have 
quotations  from  him  in  Westminster  Abbey  and 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral;  they  sing  him  in  the 
famous  Carrol  Cycle  of  Song;  and,  last  and  best 
of  all,  a  brilliant  American  playwright  is  talking 
even  now  of  dramatising  him.  The  Carrol  Club, 
of  course,  is  ancient  history.  Its  membership  is 
confined  to  the  ranks  of  intellect  and  art;  it  in- 
vites to  its  dinners  foreign  princes,  bankers, 
major-generals  and  other  persons  of  distinction — 
all  of  whom,  of  course,  are  intensely  interested  in 
the  master's  book;  and  the  record  and  praise  of 
the  Club  are  in  all  the  papers.  It  is  a  pity  that 
Carrol  is  dead.  He  would  not  have  sworn:  he 
would  have  grinned. 

Even  then,  though  he  was  not  glorious,  he  was 
observant,  and  he  left  a  brief  note,  a  sort  of 
thumb-nail  sketch,  of  his  impressions  that  night 
at  the  Chateau  de  Chinon. 

"I  was  sitting  in  my  old  corner,"  he  says, 
"wondering  why  the  devil  I  wrote  so  badly  on 
the  whole,  and  what  the  devil  I  was  going  to  do 
with  the  subject  that  I  had  tackled.  The  dinner 
was  not  so  bad  at  the  old  Chateau  in  those  days, 

212 


The  Secret  Glory 

though  now  they  say  the  plate-glass  is  the  best 
dish  in  the  establishment.  I  liked  the  old  place; 
it  was  dingy  and  low  down  and  rather  disrepu- 
table, I  fancy,  and  the  company  was  miscellaneous 
French  with  a  dash  of  Italian.  Nearly  all  of  us 
knew  each  other,  and  there  were  regulars  who  sat 
in  the  same  seat  night  after  night.  I  liked  it  all. 
I  liked  the  coarse  tablecloths  and  the  black- 
handled  knives  and  the  lead  spoons  and  the  damp, 
adhesive  salt,  and  the  coarse,  strong,  black  pepper 
that  one  helped  with  a  fork  handle.  Then  there 
was  Madame  sitting  on  high,  and  I  never  saw  an 
uglier  woman  nor  a  more  good-natured.  I  was 
getting  through  my  roast  fowl  and  salad  that 
evening,  when  two  wonderful  people  came  in, 
obviously  from  fairyland !  I  saw  they  had  never 
been  in  such  a  place  in  all  their  lives  before — I 
don't  believe  either  of  them  had  set  foot  in 
London  until  that  day,  and  their  wonder  and  de- 
light and  enjoyment  of  it  all  were  so  enormous 
that  I  had  another  helping  of  food  and  an  extra 
half-bottle  of  wine.  I  enjoyed  them,  too,  in  their 
way,  but  I  could  see  that  their  fowl  and  their 
wine  were  not  a  bit  the  same  as  mine.  /  once 
knew  the  restaurant  they  were  really  dining  at — 
Grand  Cafe  de  Paradis — some  such  name  as  that. 
He  was  an  extraordinary  looking  chap,  quite 
young,  I  should  fancy,  black  hair,  dark  skin,  and 
such  burning  eyes !  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  felt 

213 


The  Secret  Glory 

he  was  a  bit  out  of  his  setting,  and  I  kept  think- 
ing how  I  should  like  to  see  him  in  a  monk's  robe. 
Madame  was  different.  She  was  a  lovely  girl 
with  amazing  copper  hair;  dressed  rather  badly — 
of  the  people,  I  should  imagine.  But  what  a 
gaiety  she  had!  I  couldn't  hear  what  they  were 
saying,  but  one  had  to  smile  with  sheer  joy  at  the 
sight  of  her  face — it  positively  danced  with  mirth, 
and  a  good  musician  could  have  set  it  to  music,  I 
am  sure.  There  was  something  a  little  queer — 
too  pronounced,  perhaps — about  the  lower  part 
of  her  face.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  an  odd 
tune,  but  I  know  I  should  have  liked  to  hear  it!" 

Ambrose  lit  a  black  Caporal  cigarette — he  had 
bought  a  packet  on  his  way.  He  saw  an  enticing 
bottle,  of  rotund  form,  paying  its  visits  to  some 
neighbouring  tables,  and  the  happy  fools  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Benedictine. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  all  very  well,"  Ambrose  has  been 
heard  to  say  on  being  offered  this  agreeable  and 
aromatic  liqueur,  "it's  nice  enough,  I  daresay. 
But  you  should  have  tasted  the  real  stuff.  I  got 
it  at  a  little  cafe  in  Soho  some  years  ago — the 
Chateau  de  Chinon.  No,  it's  no  good  going  there 
now,  it's  quite  different.  All  the  walls  are  plate- 
glass  and  gold;  the  head  waiter  is  called  Maitre 
d'hotel,  and  I  am  told  it's  quite  the  thing,  both 
in  southern  and  northern  suburbs,  to  make  up 
dinner  parties  at  the  Chateau — everything  most 

214 


The  Secret  Glory 

correct,  evening  dress,  fans,  opera  cloaks,  'Hide- 
seek'  champagne,  and  stalls  afterwards.  One 
gets  a  glimpse  of  Bohemian  life  that  way,  and 
everybody  says  it's  been  such  a  queer  evening, 
but  quite  amusing,  too.  But  you  can't  get  the 
real  Benedictine  there  now. 

"Where  can  you  get  it?  Ah!  I  wish  I  knew. 
/  never  come  across  it.  The  bottle  looks  just  the 
same,  but  it's  quite  a  different  flavour.  The 
phylloxera  may  be  responsible,  of  course,  but  I 
don't  think  it  is.  Perhaps  the  bottle  that  went 
round  the  table  that  night  was  like  the  powder 
in  Jekyll  and  Hyde — its  properties  were  the  result 
of  some  strange  accident.  At  all  events,  they 
were  quite  magical." 

The  two  adventurers  went  forth  into  the  maze 
of  streets  and  lost  themselves  again.  Heaven 
knows  where  they  went,  by  what  ways  they  wan- 
dered, as  with  wide-gleaming  eyes,  arm  locked  in 
arm,  they  gazed  on  an  enchanted  scene  which 
they  knew  must  be  London  and  nothing  else — 
what  else  could  it  be?  Indeed,  now  and  again, 
Ambrose  thought  he  recognized  certain  features 
and  monuments  and  public  places  of  which  he 
had  read;  but  still!  That  wine  of  the  Chateau 
was,  by  all  mundane  reckonings,  of  the  smallest, 
and  one  little  glass  of  Benedictine  with  coffee 
could  not  disturb  the  weakest  head:  yet  was  it 
London,  after  all? 

215 


The  Secret  Glory 

What  they  saw  was,  doubtless,  the  common 
world  of  the  streets  and  squares,  the  gay  ways 
and  the  dull,  the  broad,  ringing,  lighted  roads  and 
the  dark,  echoing  passages;  yet  they  saw  it  all 
as  one  sees  a  mystery  play,  through  a  veil.  But 
the  veil  before  their  eyes  was  a  transmuting 
vision,  and  its  substance  was  shot  as  if  it  were 
samite,  with  wonderful  and  admirable  golden 
ornaments.  In  the  Eastern  Tales,  people  find 
themselves  thus  suddenly  transported  into  an  un- 
known magical  territory,  with  cities  that  are  alto- 
gether things  of  marvel  and  enchantment,  whose 
walls  are  pure  gold,  lighted  by  the  shining  of  in- 
comparable jewels;  and  Ambrose  declared  later 
that  never  till  that  evening  had  he  realized  the  ex- 
traordinary and  absolute  truth  to  nature  of  the 
Arabian  Nights.  Those  who  were  present  on 
a  certain  occasion  will  not  soon  forget  his  re- 
joinder to  "a  gentleman  in  the  company"  who 
said  that  for  truth  to  nature  he  went  to  George 
Eliot. 

"I  was  speaking  of  men  and  women,  Sir,"  was 
the  answer,  "not  of  lice." 

The  gentleman  in  question,  who  was  quite  an 
influential  man — some  whisper  that  he  was  an 
editor — was  naturally  very  much  annoyed. 

Still,  Ambrose  maintained  his  position.  He 
would  even  affirm  that  for  crude  realism  the 
Eastern  Tales  were  absolutely  unique. 

2l6 


The  Secret  Glory 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  take  realism  to  mean 
absolute  and  essential  truthfulness  of  description, 
as  opposed  to  merely  conventional  treatment. 
Zola  is  a  realist,  not — as  the  imbeciles  suppose — 
because  he  described — well,  rather  minutely — 
many  unpleasant  sights  and  sounds  and  smells  and 
emotions,  but  because  he  was  a  poet,  a  seer; 
because,  in  spite  of  his  pseudo-philosophies,  his 
cheap  materialisms,  he  saw  the  true  heart,  the 
reality  of  things.  Take  La  Terre;  do  you  think 
it  is  'realistic'  because  it  describes  minutely,  and 
probably  faithfully,  the  event  of  a  cow  calving? 
Not  in  the  least;  the  local  vet.  who  was  called 
in  could  probably  do  all  that  as  well,  or  better. 
It  is  'realist'  because  it  goes  behind  all  the 
brutalities,  all  the  piggeries  and  inhumanities,  of 
those  frightful  people,  and  shows  us  the  strange, 
mad,  transcendent  passion  that  lay  behind  all 
those  things — the  wild  desire  for  the  land — a 
longing  that  burned,  that  devoured,  that  inflamed, 
that  drove  men  to  hell  and  death  as  would  a 
passion  for  a  goddess  who  might  never  be  at- 
tained. Remember  how  'La  Beauce'  is  personi- 
fied, how  the  earth  swells  and  quickens  before 
one,  how  every  clod  and  morsel  of  the  soil  cries 
for  its  service  and  its  sacrifice  and  its  victims — I 
call  that  realism. 

"The  Arabian  Nights  is  also  profoundly  real- 
istic, though  both  the  subject-matter  and  the 

217 


The  Secret  Glory 

method  of  treatment — the  technique — are  very 
different  from  the  subject-matter  and  the  tech- 
nique of  Zola.  Of  course,  there  may  be  people 
who  think  that  if  you  describe  a  pigsty  well  you 
are  a  'realist,'  and  if  you  describe  an  altar  well 
you  are  'romantic.'  ...  I  do  not  know  that  the 
mental  processes  of  Cretins  form  a  very  interest- 
ing subject  for  discussion." 

One  may  surmise,  if  one  will,  that  the  sudden 
violence  of  the  change  was  a  sufficient  cause  of 
exaltation.  That  detestable  Lupton  left  behind; 
no  town,  but  a  collection  of  stink  and  poison 
factories  and  slave  quarters;  that  more  detest- 
able school,  more  ridiculous  than  the  Academy  of 
Lagado;  that  most  detestable  routine,  games, 
lessons  and  the  Doctor's  sermons — the  transition 
was  tremendous  to  the  freedom  of  fabled  London, 
of  the  unknown  streets  and  unending  multitudes. 

Ambrose  said  he  hesitated  to  talk  of  that  walk, 
lest  he  should  be  thought  an  aimless  liar.  They 
strolled  for  hours  seeing  the  most  wonderful 
things,  the  most  wonderful  people;  but  he  declared 
that  the  case  was  similar  to  that  of  the  Bene- 
dictine— he  could  never  discover  again  the  regions 
that  he  had  perambulated.  Somewhere,  he  said, 
close  to  the  Chateau  de  Chinon  there  must 
be  a  passage  which  had  since  been  blocked  up. 
By  it  was  the  entrance  to  Fairyland. 

When  at  last  they  found  Little  Russell  Row, 
218 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  black  cat  was  awaiting  them  with  an  expres- 
sion which  was  pleased  and  pious,  too;  he  had  de- 
voured the  greater  portion  of  that  quarter-pound 
of  dubious  butter.  Ambrose  smoked  black 
cigarettes  in  bed  till  the  packet  was  finished. 


Ill 

It  was  an  amazing  week  they  spent  in  London. 
For  a  couple  of  days  Nelly  was  busied  in 
getting  "things"  and  "odds  and  ends,"  and, 
to  her  credit,  she  dressed  the  part  most  admirably. 
She  abjured  all  the  imperial  purples,  the  Mediter- 
anean  blues,  the  shrieking  lilacs  that  her  class 
usually  affects,  and  appeared  at  last  a  model  of 
neat  gaiety. 

In  the  meantime,  while  these  shopping  expedi- 
tions were  in  progress,  while  Nelly  consulted  with 
those  tall,  dark-robed,  golden-haired  and  awful 
Elegances  which  preside  over  the  last  mysteries 
of  the  draper  and  milliner,  Ambrose  sat  at  home 
in  Little  Russell  Row  and  worked  out  the  out- 
lines of  some  fantasies  that  had  risen  in  his  mind. 
It  was,  in  fact,  during  these  days  that  he  made  the 
notes  which  were  afterwards  expanded  into 
the  curious  Defence  of  Taverns,  a  book  which  is 
now  rare  and  sought  after  by  collectors.  It  is 
supposed  that  it  was  this  work  that  was  in  poor 

219 


The  Secret  Glory 

Palmer's  mind  when  the  earnest  man  referred 
with  a  sort  of  gloomy  reticence  to  Meyrick's  later 
career.  He  had,  in  all  probability,  not  read  a 
line  of  it;  but  the  title  was  certainly  not  a  very 
pleasing  one,  judged  by  ordinary  scholastic 
standards.  And  it  must  be  said  that  the  critical 
reception  of  the  book  was  not  exactly  encouraging. 
One  paper  wondered  candidly  why  such  a  book 
was  ever  written  or  printed;  another  denounced 
the  author  in  good,  set  terms  as  an  enemy  of  the 
great  temperance  movement;  while  a  third,  a 
Monthly  Reviewer,  declared  that  the  work  made 
his  blood  boil.  Yet  even  the  severest  moralists 
should  have  seen  by  the  epigraph  that  the  Apes 
and  Owls  and  Antiques  hid  mysteries  of  some 
sort,  since  a  writer  whose  purposes  were  really 
evil  and  intemperate  would  never  have  chosen 
such  a  motto  as:  Jalalud-Din  praised  the  be- 
haviour of  the  Inebriated  and  drank  water  from 
the  well.  But  the  reviewers  thought  that  this 
was  unintelligible  nonsense,  and  merely  a  small 
part  of  the  writer's  general  purpose  to  annoy. 

The  rough  sketch  is  contained  in  the  first  of 
the  Note  Books,  which  are  still  unpublished,  and 
perhaps  are  likely  to  remain  so.  Meyrick  jotted 
down  his  hints  and  ideas  in  the  dingy  "first  floor 
front"  of  the  Bloomsbury  lodging-house,  sitting 
at  the  rosewood  "Davenport"  which,  to  the  land- 
lady, seemed  the  last  word  in  beautiful  furniture. 

220 


The  Secret  Glory 

The  menage  rose  late.  What  a  relief  it  was  to 
be  free  of  the  horrible  bells  that  poisoned  one's 
rest  at  Lupton,  to  lie  in  peace  as  long  as  one  liked, 
smoking  a  matutinal  cigarette  or  two  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  a  cup  of  tea !  Nelly  was  ac- 
quiring the  art  of  the  cigarette-smoker  by  degrees. 
She  did  not  like  the  taste  at  all  at  first,  but  the 
wild  and  daring  deviltry  of  the  practice 
sustained  her,  and  she  persevered.  And  while 
they  thus  wasted  the  best  hours  of  the  day, 
Ambrose  would  make  to  pass  before  the  bottom 
of  the  bed  a  long  procession  of  the  masters,  each 
uttering  his  characteristic  word  of  horror  and 
astonishment  as  he  went  by,  each  whirled  away 
by  some  invisible  power  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence.  Thus  would  enter  Chesson,  fully  at- 
tired in  cassock,  cap  and  gown: 

"Meyrick!  It  is  impossible?  Are  you  not 
aware  that  such  conduct  as  this  is  entirely  in- 
consistent with  the  tone  of  a  great  Public  School? 
Have  the  Games  .  .  ."  But  he  was  gone;  his 
legs  were  seen  vanishing  in  a  whirlwind  which 
bore  him  up  the  chimney. 

Then  Horbury  rose  out  of  the  carpet : 

"Plain  living  and  clear  thinking  are  the  notes 
of  the  System.  A  Spartan  Discipline — Meyrick ! 
Do  you  call  this  a  Spartan  Discipline?  Smoking 
tobacco  and  reposing  with  .  .  ."  He  shot  like 
an  arrow  after  the  Head. 

221 


The  Secret  Glory 

'We  discourage  luxury  by  every  means  in  our 
power.  Boy!  This  is  luxury!  Boy,  boy!  You 
are  like  the  later  Romans,  boy!  Heliogabalus 
was  accustomed  .  .  ."  The  chimney  consumed 
Palmer  also;  and  he  gave  place  to  another. 

"Roughly  speaking,  a  boy  should  be  always 
either  in  school  or  playing  games.  He  should 
never  be  suffered  to  be  at  a  loose  end.  Is  this 
your  idea  of  playing  games?  I  tell  you,  Mey- 
rick  .  .  ." 

The  game  amused  Nelly,  more  from  its  ac- 
companying "business"  and  facial  expression  than 
from  any  particular  comprehension  of  the  dia- 
logue. Ambrose  saw  that  she  could  not  grasp  all 
the  comedy  of  his  situations,  so  he  invented  an 
Idyll  between  the  Doctor  and  a  notorious  and 
flamboyant  barmaid  at  the  "Bell."  The  fame  of 
this  lady  ran  great  but  not  gracious  through  all 
Lupton.  This  proved  a  huge  success;  beginning 
as  a  mere  episode,  it  gathered  to  itself  a  compli- 
cated network  of  incidents  and  adventures,  of 
wild  attempts  and  strange  escapes,  of  stratagems 
and  ambushes,  of  disguises  and  alarms.  Indeed, 
as  Ambrose  instructed  Nelly  with  great  solemnity, 
the  tale,  at  first  an  idyll,  the  simple,  pastoral 
story  of  the  loves  of  the  Shepherd  Chesson  and 
the  Nymph  Bella,  was  rapidly  becoming  epical 
in  its  character.  He  talked  of  dividing  it  into 
twelve  books !  He  enlarged  very  elaborately  the 

222 


The  Secret  Glory 

Defeat  of  the  Suitors.  In  this  the  dear  old  Head, 
disguised  as  a  bookmaker,  drugged  the  whisky  of 
the  young  bloods  who  were  accustomed  to  throng 
about  the  inner  bar  of  the  "Bell."  There  was 
quite  a  long  passage  describing  the  compounding 
of  the  patent  draught  from  various  herbs,  the 
enormous  cook  at  the  Head's  house  enacting  a 
kind  of  Canidia  part,  and  helping  in  the  concoc- 
tion of  the  dose. 

"Mrs.  Belper,"  the  Doctor  would  observe, 
"This  is  most  gratifying.  I  had  no  idea  that 
your  knowledge  of  simples  was  so  extensive.  Do 
I  understand  you  to  affirm  that  those  few  leaves 
which  you  hold  in  your  hand  will  produce  marked 
symptoms?" 

"Bless  your  dear  'art,  Doctor  Chesson,  and  if 
you'll  forgive  me  for  talking  so  to  such  a  learned 
gentleman,  and  so  good,  I'm  sure,  but  you'll  find 
there's  nothing  in  the  world  like  it.  Often  and 
often  have  I  'card  my  pore  old  mother  that's 
dead  and  gone  these  forty  year  come  Candle- 
mas .  .  ." 

"Mrs.  Belper,  Mrs.  Belper,  I  am  surprised  at 
you !  Are  you  not  aware  that  the  Judicial  Com- 
mittee of  the  Privy  Council  has  pronounced  the 
observance  of  the  festival  you  so  lightly  name 
to  be  of  a  highly  superstitious  nature?  Your 
deceased  mother,  you  were  saying,  will  have 
entered  into  her  reward  forty  years  ago  on 

223 


The  Secret  Glory 

February  the  second  of  next  year?  Is  not  this 
the  case?" 

"These  forty  years  came  Febbymas,  I  mean, 
and  a  good  woman  she  was,  and  never  have  I 
seen  a  larger  wart  on  the  nose  and  her  legs  bad  as 
bad  for  years  and  years!" 

"These  details,  though,  no  doubt,  of  high  per- 
sonal interest,  seem  hardly  germane  to  our 
present  undertaking.  However,  Mrs.  Belper, 
proceed  in  your  remarks." 

"And  thank  you  kindly,  Sir,  and  not  forgetting 
you  are  a  clergyman — but  there !  we  can't  all  of 
us  be  everything.  And  my  pore  mother,  as  I  was 
saying,  Sir,  she  said,  again  and  again,  that  if 
she'd  been  like  some  folks  she'd  a  made  a  fortune 
in  golden  money  from  this  very  yarb  I'm  a-show- 
ing  you,  Sir." 

"Dear  me,  Mrs.  Belper!  You  interest  me 
deeply.  I  have  often  thought  how  wrong  it  is  of 
us  to  neglect,  as  undoubtedly  we  do  neglect,  the 
bounteous  gifts  of  the  kindly  earth.  Your 
lamented  mother  used  this  specific  with  remark- 
able success?" 

"Lord  a  mercy,  Doctor  Chesson!  elephants 
couldn't  a  stood  against  it,  nor  yet  whales,  being 
as  how  it's  stronger  than  the  strongest  gunpowder 
that  was  ever  brewed  or  blasted,  and  miles  better 
than  the  nasty  rubbidge  you  get  in  them  doctors' 
shops,  and  a  pretty  penny  they  make  you  pay  for 

224 


The  JSecret  Glory 

it  and  no  better  than  calomel,  if  you  ask  me, 
Sir.  But  be  it  the  strongest  of  the  strong,  I'll 
take  my  Gospel  oath  it's  weak  to  what  my  pore 
mother  made,  and  that  anybody  in  Much  Moddle 
parish  would  tell  you,  for  man,  woman  or  child 
who  took  one  of  Mrs.  Marjoram's  Mixtures  and 
got  over  it,  remember  it,  he  would,  until  his  dying 
day.  And  my  pore  old  mother,  she  was  that 
funny — never  was  a  cheerfuller  woman,  I  do 
believe,  and  when  Tom  Copus,  the  lame  fiddler, 
he  got  married,  pore  mother  1  though  she  could 
'ardly  walk,  her  legs  was  that  bad,  come  she 
would,  and  if  she  didn't  slip  a  little  of  the  mixture 
into  the  beer  when  everybody  was  looking 
another  way!  Pore,  dear  soul!  as  she  said  her- 
self afterwards,  'mirth  becomes  marriage,'  and 
so  to  be  sure  it  does,  and  merry  they  all  were 
that  day  that  didn't  touch  the  beer,  preferring 
spirits,  which  pore  mother  couldn't  get  at,  being 
locked  up — a  nasty,  mean  trick,  I  call  it,  and 
always  will." 

"Enough,  Mrs.  Belper,  enough!  You  have 
amply  satisfied  me  as  to  the  potency  of  the  late 
Mrs.  Marjoram's  pharmacopoeia.  We  will,  if 
you  have  no  objection,  Mrs.  Belper,  make  the 
mixture — to  use  the  words  of  Shakespeare — 'slab 
and  thick.'  " 

"And  bless  your  kind  'art,  Sir,  and  a  good, 
kind  master  you've  always  been  to  me,  if  you 

225 


The  Secret  Glory 

'aven't  got  enough  'ere  to  lay  out  all  the  Lupton 
town,  call  me  a  Dutchwoman,  and  that  I  never 
was,  nor  pore  Belper  neither." 

"Certainly  not,  Mrs.  Belper.  The  Dutch  be- 
long to  a  different  branch  of  the  great  Teutonic 
stock,  or,  if  identity  had  ever  existed,  the  two 
races  have  long  been  differentiated.  I  think, 
Mrs.  Belper,  that  the  most  eminent  physicians 
have  recognised  the  beneficial  effects  of  a  gentle 
laxative  during  the  treacherous  (though  delight- 
ful) season  of  spring?" 

"Law  bless  you,  Sir,  you're  right,  as  you  al- 
ways are,  or  why,  Doctor?  As  my  pore  mother 
used  to  say  when  she  made  up  the  mixture :  'Scour 
'em  out  is  the  right  way  about!'  And  laugh  she 
would  as  she  pounded  the  stuff  up  till  I  really 
thought  she  would  'a  busted,  and  shaking  like  the 
best  blancmanges  all  the  while." 

"Mrs.  Belper,  you  have  removed  a  weight 
from  my  mind.  You  think,  then,  that  I  shall  be 
freed  from  all  unfair  competition  while  I  pay  my 
addresses  to  my  young  friend,  Miss  Floyer?" 

"As  free  you  will  be,  Doctor  Chesson,  Sir,  as 
the  little  birds  in  the  air;  for  not  one  of  them 
young  fellers  will  stand  on  his  feet  for  days,  and 
groans  and  'owls  will  be  the  best  word  that  mor- 
tal man  will  speak,  and  bless  you  they  will  with 
their  dying  breath.  So,  Sir,  you'll  'ave  the  sweet 

226 


The  Secret  Glory 

young  lady,  bless  her  dear  'art,  all  to  yourself, 
and  if  it's  twins,  don't  blame  me!" 

"Mrs.  Helper,  your  construction,  if  I  may  say 
so,  is  somewhat  proleptic  in  its  character.  Still, 
I  am  sure  that  your  meaning  is  good.  Ha!  I 
hear  the  bell  for  afternoon  school." 

The  Doctor's  voice  happened  to  be  shrill  and 
piercing,  with  something  of  the  tone  of  the  tooth- 
comb  and  tissue-paper;  while  the  fat  cook  spoke 
in  a  suety,  husky  contralto.  Ambrose  repro- 
duced these  peculiarities  with  the  gift  of  the  born 
mimic,  adding  appropriate  antic  and  gesture  to 
grace  the  show,  and  Nelly's  appreciation  of  its 
humours  was  intense. 

Day  by  day  new  incidents  and  scenes  were 
added.  The  Head,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  guilty 
passion,  hid  in  the  coal-cellar  of  the  "Bell,"  and, 
rustling  sounds  being  heard,  evaded  detection 
for  a  while  by  imitating  the  barks  of  a  terrier  in 
chase  of  a  rat.  Nelly  liked  to  hear  the  "Wuff ! 
wuff!  wuff!"  which  was  introduced  at  this  point. 
She  liked  also  the  final  catastrophe,  when  the 
odd  man  of  the  "Bell"  burst  into  the  bar  and 
said:  "Dang  my  eyes,  if  it  ain't  the  Doctor! 
I  seed  his  cap  and  gown  as  he  run  round  and 
round  the  coals  on  all  fours,  a-growling  'orrible." 
To  which  the  landlady  rejoined:  "Don't  tell 
your  silly  lies  here!  How  could  he  growl,  him 

227 


The  Secret  Glory 

being  a  clergyman?"  And  all  the  loafers  joined 
in  the  chorus:  "That's  right,  Tom;  why  do  you 
talk  such  silly  lies  as  that — him  being  a  clergy- 
man?" 

They  laughed  so  loud  and  so  merrily  over  their 
morning  tea  and  these  lunacies  that  the  landlady 
doubted  gravely  as  to  their  marriage  lines.  She 
cared  nothing;  they  had  paid  what  she  asked, 
money  down  in  advance,  and,  as  she  said:  "Young 
gentlemen  will  have  their  fun  with  the  young 
ladies — so  what's  the  good  of  talking?" 

Breakfast  came  at  length.  They  gave  the 
landlady  a  warning  bell  some  half-hour  in  ad- 
vance, so  the  odd  food  was,  at  all  events,  not 
cold.  Afterwards  Nelly  sallied  off  on  her  shop- 
ping expeditions,  which,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, she  enjoyed  hugely,  and  Ambrose  stayed 
alone,  with  his  pen  and  ink  and  a  fat  notebook 
which  had  captured  his  eye  in  a  stationer's  win- 
dow. 

Under  these  odd  circumstances,  then,  he  laid 
the  foundations  of  his  rare  and  precious  Defence 
of  Taverns,  which  is  now  termed  by  those  fortu- 
nate enough  to  possess  copies  as  a  unique  and 
golden  treatise.  Though  he  added  a  good  deal 
in  later  years  and  remodelled  and  rearranged 
freely,  there  is  a  certain  charm  of  vigour  and 
freshness  about  the  first  sketch  which  is  quite  de- 
lightful in  its  way.  Take,  for  example,  the  de- 

228 


The  Secret  Glory 

scription  of  the  whole  world  overwhelmed  with 
sobriety:  a  deadly  absence  of  inebriation  annull- 
ing and  destroying  all  the  works  and  thoughts  of 
men,  the  country  itself  at  point  to  perish  of  the 
want  of  good  liquor  and  good  drinkers.  He 
shows  how  there  is  grave  cause  to  dread  that,  by 
reason  of  this  sad  neglect  of  the  Dionysiac  Mys- 
teries, humanity  is  fast  falling  backward  from 
the  great  heights  to  which  it  had  ascended,  and 
is  in  imminent  danger  of  returning  to  the 
dumb  and  blind  and  helpless  condition  of  the 
brutes. 

"How  else,"  he  says,  "can  one  account  for  the 
stricken  state  in  which  all  the  animal  world  grows 
and  is  eternally  impotent?  To  them,  strange, 
vast  and  enormous  powers  and  faculties  have 
been  given.  'Consider,  for  example,  the  curious 
equipments  of  two  odd  extremes  in  this  sphere — 
the  ant  and  the  elephant.  The  ant,  if  one  may 
say  so,  is  very  near  to  us.  We  have  our  great 
centres  of  industry,  our  Black  Country  and  our 
slaves  who,  if  not  born  black,  become  black  in 
our  service.  And  the  ants,  too,  have  their  black, 
enslaved  races  who  do  their  dirty  work  for  them, 
and  are,  perhaps,  congratulated  on  their  privil- 
eges as  sharing  in  the  blessings  of  civilisation — 
though  this  may  be  a  refinement.  The  ant 
slaves,  I  believe,  will  rally  eagerly  to  the  defence 
of  the  nest  and  the  eggs,  and  they  say  that  the 

229 


The  Secret  Glory 

labouring  classes  are  Liberal  to  the  core.  Nay; 
we  grow  mushrooms  by  art,  and  so  they.  In 
some  lands,  I  think,  they  make  enormous  nests 
which  are  the  nuisance  and  terror  of  the  country. 
We  have  Manchester  and  Lupton  and  Leeds,  and 
many  such  places — one  would  think  them  alto- 
gether civilised. 

"The  elephant,  again,  has  many  gifts  which 
we  lack.  Note  the  curious  instinct  (or  intuition, 
rather)  of  danger.  The  elephant  knows,  for  ex- 
ample, when  a  bridge  is  unsafe,  and  refuses  to 
pass,  where  a  man  would  go  on  to  destruction. 
One  might  examine  in  the  same  way  all  the  crea- 
tures, and  find  in  them  singular  capacities. 

"Yet — they  have  no  art.  They  see — but  they 
see  not.  They  hear — and  they  hear  not.  The 
odour  in  their  nostrils  has  no  sweetness  at  all. 
They  have  made  no  report  of  all  the  wonders  that 
they  knew.  Their  houses  are,  sometimes,  as  in- 
genious as  a  Chemical  Works,  but  never  is  there 
any  beauty  for  beauty's  sake. 

"It  is  clear  that  their  state  is  thus  desolate, 
because  of  the  heavy  pall  of  sobriety  that  hangs 
over  them  all;  and  it  scarcely  seems  to  have  oc- 
curred to  our  'Temperance'  advocates  that  when 
they  urge  on  us  the  example  and  abstinence  of 
the  beasts  they  have  advanced  the  deadliest  of 
all  arguments  against  their  nostrum.  The  Laugh- 
ing Jackass  is  a  teetotaller,  doubtless,  but  no  sane 

230 


The  Secret  Glory 

man   should   desire   to  be   a   Laughing  Jackass. 

"But  the  history  of  the  men  who  have  attained, 
who  have  done  the  glorious  things  of  the  earth 
and  have  become  for  ever  exalted  is  the  history 
of  the  men  who  have  quested  the  Cup.  Diony- 
sius,  said  the  Greeks,  civilised  the  world;  and  the 
Bacchic  Mystery  was,  naturally,  the  heart  and 
core  of  Greek  civilisation. 

"Note  the  similitudes  of  Vine  and  Vineyard  in 
Old  Testament. 

"Note  the  Quest  of  the  San  Graal. 

"Note  Rabelais  and  La  Dive  Bouteille. 

"Place  yourself  in  imagination  in  a  Gothic 
Cathedral  of  the  thirteenth  century  and  assist  at 
High  Mass.  Then  go  to  the  nearest  Little 
Bethel,  and  look,  and  listen.  Consider  the  differ- 
ence in  the  two  buildings,  in  those  who  worship 
in  one  and  listen  and  criticise  in  the  other.  You 
have  the  difference  between  the  Inebriated  and 
the  Sober,  displayed  in  their  works.  As  Little 
Bethel  is  to  Tintern,  so  is  Sobriety  to  Inebria- 
tion. 

"Modern  civilisation  has  advanced  in  many 
ways?  Yes.  Bethel  has  a  stucco  front.  This 
material  was  quite  unknown  to  the  builders  of 
Tintern  Abbey.  Advanced?  What  is  advance- 
ment? Freedom  from  excesses,  from  extrava- 
gances, from  wild  enthusiasms?  Small  Protes- 
tant tradesmen  are  free  from  all  these  things, 

231 


The  Secret  Glory 

certainly.  But  is  the  joy  of  Adulteration  to  be 
the  last  goal,  the  final  Initiation  of  the  Race  of 
Men?  Ctelumque  tueri — to  sand  the  sugar? 

"The  Flagons  of  the  Song  of  Songs  did  not 
contain  ginger-beer. 

"But  the  worst  of  it  is  we  shall  not  merely 
descend  to  the  beasts.  We  shall  fall  very  far 
below  the  beasts.  A  black  fellow  is  good,  and  a 
white  fellow  is  good.  But  the  white  fellow  who 
'goes  Fantee'  does  not  become  a  negro — he  be- 
comes something  infinitely  worse,  a  horrible  mass 
of  the  most  putrid  corruption. 

"If  we  can  clear  our  minds  of  the  horrible  cant 
of  our  'civilisation,'  if  we  can  look  at  a  modern 
'industrial  centre'  with  eyes  purged  of  illusions, 
we  shall  have  some  notion  of  the  awful  horror  to 
which  we  aye  descending  in  out  effort  to 
become  as  the  ants  and  bees — creatures  who 
know  nothing  of 

CALIX  INEBRIANS. 

"I  doubt  if  we  can  really  make  this  effort. 
Blacks,  Stinks,  Desolations,  Poisons,  Hell's  Night- 
mare generally  have,  I  suspect,  worked  them- 
selves into  the  very  form  and  mould  of  our 
thoughts.  We  are  sober,  and  perhaps  the  Tav- 
ern door  is  shut  for  ever  against  us. 

"Now  and  then,  perhaps,  at  rarer  and  still 
rarer  intervals,  a  few  of  us  will  hear  very  faintly 

232 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  far  echoes  of  the  holy  madness  within  the 
closed  door: 

"When  up  the  thyrse  is  raised,  and  when  the  sound 
Of  sacred  orgies  flies  'around,  around' 

"Which  is  the  Sonus  Epulantium  in  dEterno 
Convivio. 

"But  this  we  shall  not  be  able  to  discern.  Very 
likely  we  shall  take  the  noise  of  this  High  Choir 
for  the  horrid  mirth  of  Hell.  How  strange  it  is 
that  those  who  are  pledged  officially  and  cere- 
monially, as  it  were,  to  a  Rite  of  Initiation  which 
figures  certainly  a  Feast,  should  in  all  their 
thoughts  and  words  and  actions  be  continually 
blaspheming  and  denying  all  the  uses  and  ends 
of  feastings  and  festivals. 

"This  is  not  the  refusal  of  the  species  for  the 
sake  of  enjoying  perfectly  the  most  beautiful  and 
desirable  genus;  it  is  the  renouncing  of  species 
and  genus,  the  pronouncing  of  Good  to  be  Evil. 
The  Universal  being  denied,  the  Particular  is  de- 
graded and  defiled.  What  is  called  'The  Drink 
Curse'  is  the  natural  and  inevitable  result  and 
sequence  of  the  'Protestant  Reformation.'  If 
the  clear  wells  and  fountains  of  the  magic  wood 
are  buried  out  of  sight,  then  men  (who  must 
have  Drink)  will  betake  them  to  the  Slime  Ponds 
and  Poison  Pools. 

"In  the  Graal  Books  there  is  a  curse — an  evil 

233 


The  Secret  Glory 

enchantment — on  the  land  of  Logres  because  the 
mystery  of  the  Holy  Vessel  is  disregarded.  The 
Knight  sees  the  Dripping  Spear  and  the  Shining 
Cup  pass  before  him,  and  says  no  word.  He 
asks  no  question  as  to  the  end  and  meaning  of  this 
ceremony.  So  the  land  is  blasted  and  barren  and 
songless,  and  those  who  dwell  in  it  are  in  misery. 

"Every  day  of  our  lives  we  see  the  Graal 
carried  before  us  in  a  wonderful  order,  and  every 
day  we  leave  the  question  unasked,  the  Mystery 
despised  and  neglected.  Yet  if  we  could  ask  that 
question,  bowing  down  before  these  Heavenly 
and  Glorious  Splendours  and  Hallows — then 
every  man  should  have  the  meat  and  drink  that 
his  soul  desired;  the  hall  would  be  filled  with 
odours  of  Paradise,  with  the  light  of  Immortal- 
ity. 

"In  the  books  the  Graal  was  at  last  taken  away 
because  of  men's  unworthiness.  So  it  will  be,  I 
suppose.  Even  now,  the  Quester's  adventure  is 
a  deperate  one — few  there  be  that  find  It. 

"Ventilation  and  sanitation  are  well  enough  in 
their  way.  But  it  would  not  be  very  satisfactory 
to  pass  the  day  in  a  ventilated  and  sanitated  Hell 
with  nothing  to  eat  or  drink.  If  one  is  perishing 
of  hunger  and  thirst,  sanitation  seems  unimportant 
enough. 

"How  wonderful,  how  glorious  it  would  be  if 
the  Kingdom  of  the  Great  Drinkers  could  be 

234 


The  Secret  Glory 

restored!  If  we  could  only  sweep  away  all  the 
might  of  the  Sober  Ones — the  factory  builders, 
the  poison  makers,  the  politicians,  the  manu- 
facturers of  bad  books  and  bad  pictures,  together 
with  Little  Bethel  and  the  morality  of  Mr.  Mild- 
may,  the  curate  (a  series  of  negative  proposi- 
tions)— then  imagine  the  Great  Light  of  the 
Great  Inebriation  shining  on  every  face,  and  not 
any  work  of  man's  hands,  from  a  cathedral  to  a 
penknife,  without  the  mark  of  the  Tavern  upon 
itl  All  the  world  a  great  festival;  every  well 
a  fountain  of  strong  drink;  every  river  running 
with  the  New  Wine;  the  Sangraal  brought  back 
from  Sarras,  restored  to  the  awful  shrine  of  Cor- 
arbennic,  the  Oracle  of  the  Dive  Bouteille  once 
more  freely  given,  the  ruined  Vineyard  flourish- 
ing once  more,  girt  about  by  shining,  everlasting 
walls!  Then  we  should  hear  the  Old  Songs 
again,  and  they  would  dance  the  Old  Dances,  the 
happy,  ransomed  people,  Commensals  and  Com- 
potators  of  the  Everlasting  Tavern." 

The  whole  treatise,  of  which  this  extract  is  a 
fragment  in  a  rudimentary  and  imperfect  stage, 
is,  of  course,  an  impassioned  appeal  for  the  res- 
toration of  the  quickening,  exuberant  imagina- 
tion, not  merely  in  art,  but  in  all  the  inmost  places 
of  life.  There  is  more  than  this,  too.  Here 
and  there  one  can  hear,  as  it  were,  the  whisper 
and  the  hint  of  deeper  mysteries,  visions  of  a 

235 


The  Secret  Glory 

great  experiment  and  a  great  achievement  to 
which  some  men  may  be  called.  In  his  own 
words:  "Within  the  Tavern  there  is  an  Inner 
Tavern,  but  the  door  of  it  is  visible  to  few  in- 
deed." 

In  Ambrose's  mind  in  the  after  years  the  stout 
notebook  was  dear,  perhaps  as  a  substitute  for 
that  aroma  of  the  past  in  a  phial  which  he  has 
declared  so  desirable  an  invention.  It  stood,  not 
so  much  for  what  was  written  in  it  as  for  the 
place  and  the  circumstances  in  which  it  was 
written.  It  recalled  Little  Russell  Row  and 
Nelly,  and  the  evenings  at  the  Chateau  de  Chinon, 
where,  night  by  night,  they  served  still  stranger, 
more  delicious  meats,  and  the  red  wine  revealed 
more  clearly  its  high  celestial  origin.  One  even- 
ing was  diversified  by  an  odd  encounter. 

A  middle-aged  man,  sitting  at  an  adjoining 
table,  was  evidently  in  want  of  matches,  and 
Ambrose  handed  his  box  with  the  sympathetic 
smile  which  one  smoker  gives  to  another  in  such 
cases.  The  man — he  had  a  black  moustache  and 
a  small,  pointed  beard — thanked  him  in  fluent 
English  with  a  French  accent,  and  they  began 
to  talk  of  casual  things,  veering,  by  degrees,  in 
the  direction  of  the  arts.  The  Frenchman  smiled 
at  Meyrick's  enthusiasm. 

"What  a  life  you  have  before  you!"  he  said. 
"Don't  you  know  that  the  populace  always  hates 

236 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  artist — and  kills  him  if  it  can?  You  are  an 
artist  and  mystic,  too.  What  a  fate ! 

"Yes;  but  it  is  that  applause,  that  reclame 
that  conies  after  the  artist  is  dead,"  he  went  on, 
replying  to  some  objection  of  Ambrose's;  "it  is 
that  which  is  the  worst  cruelty  of  all.  It  is  fine 
for  Burns,  is  it  not,  that  his  stupid  compatriots 
have  not  ceased  to  utter  follies  about  him  for 
the  last  eighty  years?  Scotchmen?  But  they 
should  be  ashamed  to  speak  his  name !  And 
Keats,  and  how  many  others  in  my  country  and 
in  yours  and  in  all  countries?  The  imbeciles  are 
not  content  to  calumniate,  to  persecute,  to  make 
wretched  the  artist  in  his  lifetime.  They  follow 
him  with  their  praise  to  the  grave — the  grave 
that  they  have  digged !  Praise  of  the  populace ! 
Praise  of  a  race  of  pigs !  For,  you  see,  while 
they  are  insulting  the  dead  with  their  compliments 
they  are  at  the  same  time  insulting  the  living 
with  their  abuse." 

He  dropped  into  silence;  from  his  expression 
he  seemed  to  be  cursing  "the  populace"  with 
oaths  too  frightful  to  be  uttered.  He  rose  sud- 
denly and  turned  to  Ambrose. 

"Artist — and  mystic.  Yes.  You  will  prob- 
ably be  crucified.  Good  evening  .  .  .  and  a  fine 
martyrdom  to  you!" 

He  was  gone  with  a  charming  smile  and  a  de- 
lightful bow  to  "Madame."  Ambrose  looked 

237 


The  Secret  Glory 

after  him  with  a  puzzled  face;  his  last  words  had 
called  up  some  memory  that  he  could  not  capture; 
and  then  suddenly  he  recollected  the  old,  ragged 
Irish  fiddler,  the  player  of  strange  fantasies  under 
the  tree  in  the  outskirts  of  Lupton.  He  thought 
of  his  phrase  about  "red  martyrdom" ;  it  was  an 
odd  coincidence. 


IV 

The  phrases  kept  recurring  to  his  mind  after 
they  had  gone  out,  and  as  they  wandered  through 
the  lighted  streets  with  all  their  strange  and 
variegated  show,  with  glittering  windows  and 
glittering  lamps,  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of  faces, 
the  voices  and  the  laughter,  the  surging  crowds 
about  the  theatre  doors,  the  flashing  hansoms 
and  the  omnibuses  lumbering  heavily  along  to 
strange  regions,  such  as  Turnham  Green  and 
Castlenau,  Cricklewood  and  Stoke  Newington — 
why,  they  were  as  unknown  as  cities  in  Cathay! 

It  was  a  dim,  hot  night;  all  the  great  city 
smoked  as  with  a  mist,  and  a  tawny  moon  rose 
through  films  of  cloud  far  in  the  vista  of  the  east. 
Ambrose  thought  with  a  sudden  recollection  that 
the  moon,  that  world  of  splendour,  was  shining  in 
a  farther  land,  on  the  coast  of  the  wild  rocks,  on 
the  heaving  sea,  on  the  faery  apple-garths  in 
Avalon,  where,  though  the  apples  are  (always 

238 


The  Secret  Glory 

golden,  yet  the  blossoms  of  enchantment  never 
fade,  but  hang  for  ever  against  the  sky. 

They  were  passing  a  half-lit  street,  and  these 
dreams  were  broken  by  the  sudden  clanging, 
rattling  music  of  a  piano-organ.  For  a  moment 
they  saw  the  shadowy  figures  of  the  children  as 
they  flitted  to  and  fro,  dancing  odd  measures  in 
the  rhythm  of  the  tune.  Then  they  came  into  a 
long,  narrow  way  with  a  church  spire  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  near  the  church  they  passed  the 
"church-shop" — Roman,  evidently,  from  the  sub- 
jects and  the  treatment  of  the  works  of  art  on 
view.  But  it  was  strange !  In  the  middle  of  the 
window  was  a  crude,  glaring  statue  of  some 
saint.  He  was  in  bright  red  robes,  sprinkled 
with  golden  stars;  the  blood  rained  down  from  a 
wound  in  his  forehead,  and  with  one  hand  he 
drew  the  scarlet  vestment  aside  and  pointed  to 
the  dreadful  gash  above  his  heart,  and  from  this, 
again,  the  bloody  drops  fell  thick.  The  colours 
stared  and  shrieked,  and  yet,  through  the  bad, 
cheap  art  there  seemed  to  shine  a  rapture  that 
was  very  near  to  beauty;  the  thing  expressed  was 
so  great  that  it  had  to  a  certain  extent  overcome 
the  villainy  of  the  expression. 

They  wandered  vaguely,  after  their  custom. 
Ambrose  was  silent;  he  was  thinking  of  Avalon 
and  "Red  Martyrdom"  and  the  Frenchman's 
parting  salutation,  of  the  vision  in  one  of  the  old 

239 


The  Secret  Glory 

books,  "the  Man  clothed  in  a  robe  redder  and 
more  shining  than  burning  fire,  and  his  feet  and 
his  hands  and  his  face  were  of  a  like  flame,  and 
five  angels  in  fiery  vesture  stood  about  him,  and 
at  the  feet  of  the  Man  the  ground  was  covered 
with  a  ruddy  dew." 

They  passed  under  an  old  church  tower  that 
rose  white  in  the  moonlight  above  them.  The 
air  had  cleared,  the  mist  had  floated  away,  and 
now  the  sky  glowed  violet,  and  the  white  stones 
of  the  classic  spirit  shone  on  high.  From  it  there 
came  suddenly  a  tumult  of  glad  sound,  exultant 
bells  in  ever-changing  order,  pealing  out  as  if  to 
honour  some  great  victory,  so  that  the  mirth  of 
the  street  below  became  but  a  trivial  restless 
noise.  He  thought  of  some  passage  that  he  had 
read  but  could  not  distinctly  remember :  a  ship 
was  coming  back  to  its  haven  after  a  weary  and 
tempestuous  voyage  over  many  dreadful  seas,  and 
those  on  board  saw  the  tumult  in  the  city  as  their 
sails  were  sighted;  heard  afar  the  shouts  of  glad- 
ness from  the  rejoicing  people;  heard  the  bells 
from  all  the  spires  and  towers  break  suddenly 
into  triumphant  chorus,  sounding  high  above  the 
washing  of  the  waves. 

Ambrose  roused  himself  from  his  dreams. 
They  had  been  walking  in  a  circle  and  had  re- 
turned almost  to  the  street  of  the  Chateau, 
though,  their  knowledge  of  the  district  being  of 

240 


The  Secret  Glory 

an  unscientific  character,  they  were  under  the 
impression  that  they  were  a  mile  or  so  away 
from  that  particular  point.  As  it  happened,  they 
had  not  entered  this  street  before,  and  they  were 
charmed  at  the  sudden  appearance  of  stained 
glass  lighted  up  from  within.  The  colour  was 
rich  and  good;  there  were  flourished  scrolls  and 
grotesques  in  the  Renaissance  manner,  many  em- 
blazoned shields  in  ruby  and  gold  and  azure;  and 
the  centre-piece  showed  the  Court  of  the  Beer 
King — a  jovial  and  venerable  figure  attended  by  a 
host  of  dwarfs  and  kobolds,  all  holding  on  high 
enormous  mugs  of  beer.  They  went  in  boldly 
and  were  glad.  It  was  the  famous  "Three 
Kings"  in  its  golden  and  unreformed  days,  but 
this  they  knew  not.  The  room  was  of  moderate 
size,  very  low,  with  great  dark  beams  in  the  white 
ceiling.  White  were  the  walls;  on  the  plaster, 
black-letter  texts  with  vermilion  initials  praised 
the  drinker's  art,  and  more  kobolds,  in  black  and 
red,  loomed  oddly  in  unsuspected  corners.  The 
lighting,  presumably,  was  gas,  but  all  that  was 
visible  were  great  antique  lanterns  depending 
from  iron  hooks,  and  through  their  dull  green 
glass  only  a  dim  radiance  fell  upon  the  heavy 
oak  tables  and  the  drinkers.  From  the  middle 
beam  an  enormous  bouquet  of  fresh  hops  hung  on 
high;  there  was  a  subdued  murmur  of  talk,  and 
now  and  then  the  clatter  of  the  lid  of  a  mug,  as 

241 


The  Secret  Glory 

fresh  beer  was  ordered.  In  one  corner  there  was 
a  kind  of  bar;  behind  it  a  couple  of  grim  women — 
the  kobolds  apparently — performed  their  office; 
and  above,  on  a  sort  of  rack,  hung  mugs  and 
tankards  of  all  sizes  and  of  all  fantasies.  There 
were  plain  mugs  of  creamy  earthenware,  mugs 
gaudily  and  oddly  painted  with  garlanded  goats, 
with  hunting  scenes,  with  towering  castles,  with 
flaming  posies  of  flowers.  Then  some  friend  of 
the  drunken,  some  sage  who  had  pried  curiously 
into  the  secrets  of  thirst,  had  made  a  series  of 
wonders  in  glass,  so  shining  and  crystalline  that 
to  behold  them  was  as  if  one  looked  into  a  well, 
for  every  glitter  of  the  facets  gave  promise  of 
satisfaction.  There  were  the  mugs,  capacious 
and  very  deep,  crowned  for  the  most  part  not 
with  mere  plain  lids  of  common  use  and  make, 
but  with  tall  spires  in  pewter,  richly  ornamented, 
evident  survivals  from  the  Middle  Ages.  Am- 
brose's eyes  glistened;  the  place  was  altogether 
as  he  would  have  designed  it.  Nelly,  too,  was 
glad  to  sit  down,  for  they  had  walked  longer 
than  usual.  She  was  refreshed  by  a  glass  of  some 
cool  drink  with  a  borage  flower  and  a  cherry  float- 
ing in  it,  and  Ambrose  ordered  a  mug  of  beer. 

It  is  not  known  how  many  of  these  krugs  he 
emptied.  It  was,  as  has  been  noted,  a  sultry 
night,  and  the  streets  were  dusty,  and  that  glass 
of  Benedictine  after  dinner  rather  evokes  than 

242 


The  Secret  Glory 

dismisses  the  demon  of  thirst.  Still,  Munich 
beer  is  no  hot  and  rebellious  drink,  so  the  causes 
of  what  followed  must  probably  be  sought  for  in 
other  springs.  Ambrose  took  a  deep  draught, 
gazed  upward  to  the  ceiling,  and  ordered  another 
mug  of  beer  for  himself  and  some  more  of  the 
cool  and  delicate  and  flowery  beverage  for  Nelly. 
When  the  drink  was  set  upon  the  board,  he  thus 
began,  without  title  or  preface: 

"You  must  know,  Nelly  dear,"  he  said,  "that 
the  marriage  of  Panurge,  which  fell  out  in  due 
time  (according  to  the  oracle  and  advice  of  the 
Holy  Bottle),  was  by  no  means  a  fortunate  one. 
For,  against  all  the  counsel  of  Pantagruel  and  of 
Friar  John,  and  indeed  of  all  his  friends,  Panurge 
married  in  a  fit  of  spleen  and  obstinacy  the 
crooked  and  squinting  daughter  of  the  little  old 
man  who  sold  green  sauce  in  the  Rue  Quincan- 
grogne  at  Tours — you  will  see  the  very  place  in 
a  few  days,  and  then  you  will  understand  every- 
thing. You  do  not  understand  that?  My  child, 
that  is  impiety,  since  it  accuses  the  Zeitgest,  who 
is  certainly  the  only  god  that  ever  existed,  as  you 
will  see  more  fully  demonstrated  in  Huxley  and 
Spencer  and  all  the  leading  articles  in  all  the  lead- 
ing newspapers.  Quod  erat  demonstrandum. 
To  be  still  more  precise :  You  must  know  that 
when  I  am  dead,  and  a  very  great  man  indeed, 
many  thousands  of  people  will  come  from  all  the 

243 


The  Secret  Glory 

quarters  of  the  globe — not  forgetting  the  United 
States — to  Lupton.  They  will  come  and  stare 
very  hard  at  the  Old  Grange,  which  will  have  an 
inscription  about  me  on  the  wall;  they  will  spend 
hours  in  High  School;  they  will  walk  all  round 
Playing  Fields ;  they  will  cut  little  bits  off  'brooks' 
and  'quarries.'  Then  they  will  view  the  Sulphuric 
Acid  works,  the  Chemical  Manure  factory  and 
the  Free  Library,  and  whatever  other  stink-pots 
and  cesspools  Lupton  town  may  contain;  they 
will  finally  enjoy  the  view  of  the  Midland  Rail- 
way Goods  Station.  Then  they  will  say:  'Now 
we  understand  him;  now  one  sees  how  he  got  all 
his  inspiration  in  that  lovely  old  school  and  the 
wonderful  English  country-side.'  So  you  see  that 
when  I  show  you  the  Rue  Quincangrogne  you 
will  perfectly  understand  this  history.  Let  us 
drink;  the  world  shall  never  be  drowned  again, 
so  have  no  fear. 

"Well,  the  fact  remains  that  Panurge,  having 
married  this  hideous  wench  aforesaid,  was  exces- 
sively unhappy.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  argued 
with  his  wife  in  all  known  languages  and  in  some 
that  are  unknown,  for,  as  she  said,  she  only  knew 
two  languages,  the  one  of  Touraine  and  the  other 
of  the  Stick,  and  this  second  she  taught  Panurge 
per  modum  passionis — that  is  by  beating  him, 
and  this  so  thoroughly  that  poor  Pilgarlic  was 
sore  from  head  to  foot.  He  was  a  worthy  little 

244 


The  Secret  Glory 

fellow,  but  the  greatest  coward  that  ever 
breathed.  Believe  me,  illustrious  drinkers  and 
most  precious.  .  .  .  Nelly,  never  was  man  so 
wretched  as  this  Panurge  since  Paradise  fell  from 
Adam.  This  is  the  true  doctrine;  I  heard  it 
when  I  was  at  Eleusis.  You  enquire  what  was 
the  matter?  Why,  in  the  first  place,  this  vile 
wretch  whom  they  all  called — so  much  did  they 
hate  her — La  Vie  Mortale,  or  Deadly  Life,  this 
vile  wretch,  I  say:  what  do  you  think  that  she 
did  when  the  last  note  of  the  fiddles  had  sounded 
and  the  wedding  guests  had  gone  off  to  the 
'Three  Lampreys'  to  kill  a  certain  worm — the 
which  worm  is  most  certainly  immortal,  since  it 
is  not  dead  yet!  Well,  then,  what  did  Madame 
Panurge?  Nothing  but  this:  She  robbed  her 
excellent  and  devoted  husband  of  all  that  he  had. 
Doubtless  you  remember  how,  in  the  old  days, 
Panurge  had  played  ducks  and  drakes  with  the 
money  that  Pantagruel  had  given  him,  so  that  he 
borrowed  on  his  corn  while  it  was  still  in  the 
ear,  and  before  it  was  sown,  if  we  enquire  a 
little  more  closely.  In  truth,  the  good  little  man 
never  had  a  penny  to  bless  himself  withal,  for 
the  which  cause  Pantagruel  loved  him  all  the 
more  dearly.  So  that  when  the  Dive  Bouteille 
gave  its  oracle,  and  Panurge  chose  his  spouse, 
Pantagruel  showed  how  preciously  he  esteemed 
a  hearty  spender  by  giving  him  such  a  treasure 

245 


The  Secret  Glory 

that  the  goldsmiths  who  live  under  the  bell  of 
St.  Gatien  still  talk  of  it  before  they  dine,  because 
by  doing  so  their  mouths  water,  and  these  salivary 
secretions  are  of  high  benefit  to  the  digestion: 
read  on  this,  Galen.  If  you  would  know  how 
great  and  glorious  this  treasure  was,  you  must 
go  to  the  Library  of  the  Archeveche  at  Tours, 
where  they  will  show  you  a  vast  volume  bound 
in  pigskin,  the  name  of  which  I  have  forgotten. 
But  this  book  is  nothing  else  than  the  list  of  all 
the  wonders  and  glories  of  Pantagruel's  wedding 
present  to  Panurge;  it  contains  surprising  things, 
I  can  tell  you,  for,  in  good  coin  of  the  realm 
alone,  never  was  gift  that  might  compare  with 
it;  and  besides  the  common  money  there  were 
ancient  pieces,  the  very  names  of  which  are  now 
incomprehensible,  and  incomprehensible  they  will 
remain  till  the  coming  of  the  Coqcigrues.  There 
was,  for  instance,  a  great  gold  Sol,  a  world  in  it- 
self, as  some  said  truly,  and  I  know  not  how 
many  myriad  myriad  of  Etoiles,  all  of  the  finest 
silver  that  was  ever  minted,  and  Anges-Gardiens, 
v/hich  the  learned  think  must  have  been  first 
coined  at  Angers,  though  others  will  have  it  that 
they  were  the  same  as  our  Angels;  and,  as  for 
Roses  de  Paradis  and  Couronnes  Immortelles,  I 
believe  he  had  as  many  of  them  as  ever  he  would. 
Beauties  and  joys  he  was  to  keep  for  pocket- 
money;  small  change  is  sometimes  great  gain. 

246 


The  Secret  Glory 

And,  as  I  say,  no  sooner  had  Panurge  married 
that  accursed  daughter  of  the  Rue  Quincangrogne 
than  she  robbed  him  of  everything,  down  to  the 
last  brass  farthing.  The  fact  is  that  the  woman 
was  a  witch;  she  was  also  something  else  which 
I  leave  out  for  the  present.  But,  if  you  will  be- 
lieve me,  she  cast  such  a  spell  upon  Panurge  that 
he  thought  himself  an  absolute  beggar.  Thus 
he  would  look  at  his  Sol  d'Or  and  say:  'What 
is  the  use  of  that?  It  is  only  a  great  bright  lump : 
I  can  see  it  every  day.'  Then  when  they  said, 
'But  how  about 'those  Anges-Gardiens?'  he  would 
reply,  'Where  are  they?  Have  you  seen  them? 
/  never  see  them.  Show  them  to  me,'  and  so  with 
all  else;  and  all  the  while  that  villain  of  a  woman 
beat,  thumped  and  belaboured  him  so  that  the 
tears  were  always  in  his  eyes,  and  they  say  you 
could  hear  him  howling  all  over  the  world. 
Everybody  said  that  he  had  made  a  pretty  mess 
of  it,  and  would  come  to  a  bad  end. 

"Luckily  for  him,  this  .  .  .  witch  of  a  wife  of 
his  would  sometimes  doze  off  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  he  had  a  little  peace,  and  he  would 
wonder  what  had  become  of  all  the  gay  girls  and 
gracious  ladies  that  he  had  known  in  old  times — 
for  he  had  played  the  devil  with  the  women  in 
his  day  and  could  have  taught  Ovid  lessons  in 
arte  amoris.  Now,  of  course,  it  was  as  much  as 
his  life  was  worth  to  mention  the  very  name  of 

247 


The  Secret  Glory 

one  of  these  ladies,  and  as  for  any  little  sly  visits, 
stolen  endearments,  hidden  embraces,  or  any 
small  matters  of  that  kind,  it  was  good-bye,  I 
shall  see  you  next  Nevermas.  Nor  was  this  all, 
but  worse  remains  behind;  and  it  is  my  belief  that 
it  is  the  thought  of  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
that  makes  the  wind  wail  and  cry  of  winter  nights, 
and  the  clouds  weep,  and  the  sky  look  black; 
for  in  truth  it  is  the  greatest  sorrow  that  ever 
was  since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  I  must  out 
with  it  quick,  or  I  shall  never  have  done :  in  plain 
English,  and  as  true  as  I  sit  here  drinking  good 
ale,  not  one  drop  or  minim  or  drachm  or  penny- 
weight of  drink  had  Panurge  tasted  since  the  day 
of  his  wedding!  He  had  implored  mercy,  he 
had  told  her  how  he  had  served  Gargantua  and 
Pantagruel  and  had  got  into  the  habit  of  drinking 
in  his  sleep,  and  his  wife  had  merely  advised  him 
to  go  to  the  devil — she  was  not  going  to  let  him 
so  much  as  look  at  the  nasty  stuff.  '  "Touch  not, 
taste  not,  smell  not,"  is  my  motto,'  said  she. 
She  gave  him  a  blue  ribbon,  which  she  said  would 
make  up  for  it.  'What  do  you  want  with  Drink?' 
said  she.  'Go  and  do  business  instead,  it's  much 
better  for  you.' 

"Sad,  then,  and  sorry  enough  was  the  estate 
of  poor  Panurge.  At  last,  so  wretched  did  he  be- 
come, that  he  took  advantage  of  one  of  his  wife's 
dozes  and  stole  away  to  the  good  Pantagruel,  and 

248 


The  Secret  Glory 

told  him  the  whole  story — and  a  very  bad  one 
it  was — so  that  the  tears  rolled  down  Panta- 
gruel's  cheeks  from  sheer  grief,  and  each  tear- 
drop contained  exactly  one  hundred  and  eighteen 
gallons  of  aqueous  fluid,  according  to  the  calcula- 
tions of  the  best  geometers.  The  great  man  saw 
that  the  case  was  a  desperate  one,  and  Heaven 
knew,  he  said,  whether  it  could  be  mended  or 
not;  but  certain  it  was  that  a  business  such  as  this 
could  not  be  settled  in  a  hurry,  since  it  was  not 
like  a  game  at  shove-ha'penny  to  be  got  over  be- 
tween two  gallons  of  wine.  He  therefore  coun- 
selled Panurge  to  have  patience  and  bear  with  his 
wife  for  a  few  thousand  years,  and  in  the  mean- 
time they  would  see  what  could  be  done.  But, 
lest  his  patience  should  wear  out,  he  gave  him  an 
odd  drug  or  medicine,  prepared  by  the  great  art- 
ist of  the  Mountains  of  Cathay,  and  this  he  was 
to  drop  into  his  wife's  glass — for  though  he 
might  have  no  drink,  she  was  drunk  three  times 
a  day,  and  she  would  sleep  all  the  longer,  and 
leave  him  awhile  in  peace.  This  Panurge  very 
faithfully  performed,  and  got  a  little  rest  now 
and  again,  and  they  say  that  while  that  devil  of 
a  woman  snored  and  snorted  he  was  able,  by  odd 
chances  once  or  twice,  to  get  hold  of  a  drop  of 
the  right  stuff — good  old  Stingo  from  the  big 
barrel — which  he  lapped  up  as  eagerly  as  a  kitten 
laps  cream.  Others  there  be  who  declare  that 

249 


The  Secret  Glory 

once  or  twice  he  got  about  his  sad  old  tricks, 
while  his  ugly  wife  was  sleeping  in  the  sun;  the 
women  on  the  Maille  make  no  secret  of  their 
opinion  that  his  old  mistress,  Madame  Sophia, 
was  seen  stealing  in  and  out  of  the  house  as  slyly 
as  you  please,  and  God  knows  what  goes  on 
when  the  door  is  shut.  But  the  Tlourainians 
were  always  sad  gossips,  and  one  must  not  be- 
lieve all  that  one  hears.  I  leave  out  the  flat 
scandal-mongers  who  are  bold  enough  to  declare 
that  he  kept  one  mistress  at  Jerusalem,  another 
at  Eleusis,  another  in  Egypt  and  about  as  many 
as  are  contained  in  the  seraglio  of  the  Grand 
Turk,  scattered  up  and  down  in  the  towns  and 
villages  of  Asia ;  but  I  do  believe  there  was  some 
kissing  in  dark  corners,  and  a  curtain  hung  across 
one  room  in  the  house  could  tell  odd  tales. 
Nevertheless,  La  Vie  Mortale  (a  pest  on  her!) 
was  more  often  awake  than  asleep,  and  when  she 
was  awake  Panurge's  case  was  worse  than  ever. 
For,  you  see,  the  woman  was  no  piece  of  a  fool, 
and  she  saw  sure  enough  that  something  was  go- 
ing on.  The  Stingo  in  the  barrel  was  lower  than 
of  rights,  and  more  than  once  she  had  caught 
her  husband  looking  almost  happy,  at  which  she 
beat  the  house  about  his  ears.  Then,  another 
time,  Madame  Sophia  dropped  her  ring,  and 
again  this  sweet  lady  came  one  morning  so 
strongly  perfumed  that  she  scented  the  whole 

250 


The  Secret  Glory 

place,  and  when  La  Vie  woke  up  it  smelt  like  a 
church.  There  was  fine  work  then,  I  promise 
you;  the  people  heard  the  bangs  and  curses  and 
shrieks  and  groans  as  far  as  Amboise  on  the  one 
side  and  Luynes  on  the  other;  and  that  year  the 
Loire  rose  ten  feet  higher  than  the  banks  on  ac- 
count of  Panurge's  tears.  As  a  punishment,  she 
made  him  go  and  be  industrial,  and  he  built  ten 
thousand  stink-pot  factories  with  twenty  thousand 
chimneys,  and  all  the  leaves  and  trees  and  green 
grass  and  flowers  in  the  world  were  blackened  and 
died,  and  all  the  waters  were  poisoned  so  that 
there  were  no  perch  in  the  Loire,  and  salmon 
fetched  forty  sols  the  pound  at  Chinon  market. 
As  for  the  men  and  women,  they  became  yellow 
apes  and  listened  to  a  codger  named  Calvin,  who 
told  them  they  would  all  be  damned  eternally  (ex- 
cept himself  and  his  friends),  and  they  found  his 
doctrine  very  comforting,  and  probable  too,  since 
they  had  the  sense  to  know  that  they  were  more 
than  half  damned  already.  I  don't  know  whether 
Panurge's  fate  was  worse  on  this  occasion  or  on  an- 
other when  his  wife  found  a  book  in  his  writing, 
full  from  end  to  end  of  poetry;  some  of  it  about 
the  wonderful  treasure  that  Pantagruel  had  given 
him,  which  he  was  supposed  to  have  forgotten; 
Some  of  it  verses  to  those  old  light-o'-loves  of 
his,  with  a  whole  epic  in  praise  of  his  mistress-in- 
chief,  Sophia.  Then,  indeed,  there  was  the  very 

251 


The  Secret  Glory 

deuce  to  pay;  it  was  bread  and  water,  stripes  and 
torment,  all  day  long,  and  La  Vie  swore  a  great 
oath  that  if  he  ever  did  it  again  he  should  be  sent 
to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life  in  Manchester,  where- 
upon he  fell  into  a  swoon  from  horrid  fright 
and  lay  like  a  log,  so  that  everybody  thought  he 
was  dead. 

"All  this  while  the  great  Pantagruel  was  not 
idle.  Perceiving  how  desperate  the  matter  was, 
he  summoned  the  Thousand  and  First  Great 
(Ecumenical  Council  of  all  the  sages  of  the  wide 
world,  and  when  the  fathers  had  come,  and  had 
heard  High  Mass  at  St.  Gatien's,  the  session  was 
opened  in  a  pavilion  in  the  meadows  by  the 
Loire  just  under  the  Lanterne  of  Roche  Corbon, 
whence  this  Council  is  always  styled  the  great 
and  holy  Council  of  the  Lantern.  If  you  want 
to  know  where  the  place  is  you  can  do  so  very 
easily,  for  there  is  a  choice  tavern  on  the  spot 
where  the  pavilion  stood,  and  there  you  may 
have  malelotte  and  friture  and  amber  wine  of 
Vouvray,  better  than  in  any  tavern  in  Touraine. 
As  for  the  history  of  the  acts  of  this  great  Coun- 
cil, it  is  still  a-writing,  and  so  far  only  two  thou- 
sand volumes  in  elephant  folio  have  been  printed 
sub  signo  Lucerne  cum  per  mis  su  superiorum. 
However,  as  it  is  necessary  to  be  brief,  it  may 
be  said  that  the  holy  fathers  of  the  Lantern,  after 
having  heard  the  whole  case  as  it  was  exposed  to 

252 


The  Secret  Glory 

them  by  the  great  clerks  of  Pantagruel,  having 
digested  all  the  arguments,  looked  into  the  prec- 
edents, applied  themselves  to  the  doctrine,  ex- 
plored the  hidden  wisdom,  consulted  the  Canons, 
searched  the  Scruptures,  divided  the  dogma,  dis- 
tinguished the  distinctions  and  answered  the  ques- 
tions, resolved  with  one  voice  that  there  was  no 
help  in  the  world  for  Panurge,  save  only  this: 
he  must  forthwith  achieve  the  most  high,  noble 
and  glorious  quest  of  the  Sangraal,  for  no  other 
way  was  there  under  heaven  by  which  he  might 
rid  himself  of  that  pestilent  wife  of  his,  La  Vie 
Mortale. 

"And  on  some  other  occasion,"  said  Ambrose, 
"you  may  hear  of  the  last  voyage  of  Panurge  to 
the  Glassy  Isle  of  the  Holy  Graal,  of  the  incred- 
ible adventures  that  he  achieved,  of  the  dread 
perils  through  which  he  passed,  of  the  great  won- 
ders and  marvels  and  compassions  of  the  way, 
of  the  manner  in  which  he  received  the  title  Plen- 
tyn  y  Tonau,  which  signifies  'Child  of  the  Water- 
floods,'  and  how  at  last  he  gloriously  attained  the 
vision  of  the  Sangraal,  and  was  most  happily 
translated  out  of  the  power  of  La  Vie  Mortale." 

"And  where  is  he  now?"  said  Nelly,  who  had 
found  the  tale  interesting  but  obscure. 

"It  is  not  precisely  known — opinions  vary. 
But  there  are  two  odd  things:  one  is  that  he  is 
exactly  like  that  man  in  the  red  dress  whose 

253 


The  Secret  Glory 

statue  we  saw  in  the  shop  window  to-night;  and 
the  other  is  that  from  that  day  to  this  he  has 
never  been  sober  for  a  single  minute. 

"Calix   meus   inebrians   quam   praclarus   est!" 


Ambrose  took  a  great  draught  from  the 
mug  and  emptied  it,  and  forthwith  rapped 
the  lid  for  a  fresh  supply.  Nelly  was 
somewhat  nervous;  she  was  afraid  he  might 
begin  to  sing,  for  there  were  extravagances  in  the 
history  of  Panurge  which  seemed  to  her  to  be  of 
alcoholic  isource.  However,  he  did  not  sing;  he 
lapsed  into  silence,  gazing  at  the  dark  beams, 
the  hanging  hops,  the  bright  array  of  the  tank- 
ards and  the  groups  of  drinkers  dotted  about  the 
room.  At  a  neighbouring  table  two  Germans 
were  making  a  hearty  meal,  chumping  the  meat 
and  smacking  their  lips  in  a  kind  of  heavy  ecstasy. 
He  had  but  little  German,  but  he  caught  scraps 
of  the  conversation. 

One  man  said: 

"Heavenly  swine  cutlets!" 

And   the   other  answered: 

"Glorious  eating!" 

"Nelly,"  said  Ambrose,  "I  have  a  great  in- 
spiration!" 

She  trembled  visibly. 

254 


The  Secret  Glory 

"Yes;  I  have  talked  so  much  that  I  am  hun- 
gry. We  will  have  some  supper." 

They  looked  over  the  list  of  strange  eatables 
and,  with  the  waiter's  help,  decided  on  Leber- 
wurst  and  potato-salad  as  light  and  harmless. 
With  this  they  ate  crescent  loaves,  sprinkled  with 
caraway  seeds:  there  was  more  Munich  Lion- 
Brew  and  more  flowery  drink,  with  black  coffee, 
a  fine  and  a  Maraschino  to  end  all.  For  Nelly 
the  kobolds  began  to  perform  a  grotesque  and 
mystic  dance  in  the  shadows,  the  glass  tankards 
on  the  rack  glittered  strangely,  the  white  walls 
with  the  red  and  black  texts  retreated  into  vast 
distances,  and  the  bouquet  of  hops  seemed 
suspended  from  a  remote  star.  As  for  Ambrose, 
he  was  certainly  not  ebrlus  according  to  the 
Baron's  definition;  he  was  hardly  ebriolus;  but 
he  was  sensible,  let  us  say,  of  a  certain  quicken- 
ing of  the  fancy,  of  a  more  vivid  and  poignant 
enjoyment  of  the  whole  situation,  of  the  unutter- 
able gaiety  of  this  mad  escape  from  the  conven- 
tions of  Lupton. 

"It  was  a  Thursday  night,"  said  Ambrose  in 
the  after  years,  "and  we  were  thinking  of  starting 
for  Touraine  either  the  next  morning  or  on 
Saturday  at  latest.  It  will  always  be  bright  in 
my  mind,  that  picture — the  low  room  with  the 
oak  beams,  the  glittering  tankards,  the  hops 
hanging  from  the  ceiling,  and  Nelly  sitting  before 

255 


The  Secret  Glory 

me  sipping  the  scented  drink  from  a  green  glass. 
It  was  the  last  night  of  gaiety,  and  even  then 
gaiety  was  mixed  with  odd  patterns — the  French- 
man's talk  about  martyrdom,  and  the  statue  of 
the  saint  pointing  to  the  marks  of  his  passion, 
standing  in  that  dyed  vesture  with  his  rapt,  exult- 
ant face;  and  then  the  song  of  final  triumph  and 
deliverance  that  rang  out  on  the  chiming  bells 
from  the  white  spire.  I  think  the  contrast  of 
this  solemn  undertone  made  my  heart  all  the 
lighter;  I  was  in  that  odd  state  in  which  one  de- 
lights to  know  that  one  is  not  being  understood 
— so  I  told  poor  Nelly  the  story  of  Panurge's 
marriage  to  La  Vie  Mortale;  I  am  sure  she 
thought  I  was  drunk! 

"We  went  home  in  a  hansom,  and  agreed  that 
we  would  have  just  one  cigarette  and  then  go  to 
bed.  It  was  settled  that  we  would  catch  the  night 
boat  to  Dieppe  on  the  next  day,  and  we  both 
laughed  with  joy  at  the  thought  of  the  adventure. 
And  then — I  don't  know  how  it  was — Nelly 
began  to  tell  me  all  about  herself.  She  had  never 
said  a  word  before;  I  had  never  asked  her — I 
never  ask  anybody  about  their  past  lives.  What 
does  it  matter?  You  know  a  certain  class  of 
plot — novelists  are  rather  fond  of  using  it — in 
which  the  hero's  happiness  is  blasted  because  he 
finds  out  that  the  life  of  his  wife  or  his  sweetheart 

256 


The  Secret  Glory 

has  not  always  been  spotless  as  the  snow.  Why 
should  it  be  spotless  as  the  snow?  What  is  the 
hero  that  he  should  be  dowered  with  the  love  of 
virgins  of  Paradise?  I  call  it  cant — all  that — 
and  I  hate  it;  I  hope  Angel  Clare  was  eventually 
entrapped  by  a  young  person  from  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cus— she  would  probably  be  much  too  good  for 
him!  So,  you  see,  I  was  hardly  likely  to  have 
put  any  very  searching  questions  to  Nelly;  we  had 
other  things  to  talk  about. 

"But  this  night  I  suppose  she  was  a  bit  excited. 
It  had  been  a  wild  and  wonderful  week.  The 
transition  from  that  sewage-pot  in  the  Midlands 
to  the  Abbey  of  Theleme  was  enough  to  turn  any 
head;  we  had  laughed  till  we  had  grown  dizzy. 
The  worst  of  that  miserable  school  discipline  is 
is  that  it  makes  one  take  an  insane  and  quite  dis- 
proportionate enjoyment  in  little  things,  in  the 
merest  trifles  which  ought  really  to  be  accepted 
as  a  matter  of  course.  I  assure  you  that  every 
minute  that  I  spent  in  bed  after  seven  o'clock  was 
to  me  a  grain  of  Paradise,  a  moment  of  delight. 
Of  course,  it's  ridiculous;  let  a  man  get  up  early 
or  get  up  late,  as  he  likes  or  as  he  finds  best — 
and  say  no  more  about  it.  But  at  that  wretched 
Lupton  early  rising  was  part  of  the  infernal 
blether  and  blatter  of  the  place,  that  made  life 
there  like  a  long  dinner  in  which  every  dish  has 

257 


The  Secret  Glory 

the  same  sauce.  It  may  be  a  good  sauce  enough; 
but  one  is  sick  of  the  taste  of  it.  According  to 
our  Bonzes  there,  getting  up  early  on  a  winter's 
day  was  a  high  virtue  which  acquired  merit.  I 
believe  I  should  have  liked  a  hard  chair  to  sit  in 
of  my  own  free  will,  if  one  of  our  old  fools — 
Palmer — had  not  always  been  gabbling  about  the 
horrid  luxury  of  some  boys  who  had  arm-chairs 
in  their  studies.  Unless  you  were  doing  some- 
thing or  other  to  make  yourself  very  uncomfort- 
able, he  used  to  say  you  were  like  the  'later  Ro- 
mans.' I  am  sure  he  believed  that  those  lunatics 
who  bathe  in  the  Serpentine  on  Christmas  Day 
would  go  straight  to  heaven ! 

"And  there  you  are.  I  would  awake  at  seven 
o'clock  from  persistent  habit,  and  laugh  as  I 
realised  that  I  was  in  Little  Russell  Row  and  not 
at  the  Old  Grange.  Then  I  would  doze  off  again 
and  wake  up  at  intervals — eight,  nine,  ten — and 
chuckle  to  myself  with  ever-increasing  enjoyment. 
It  was  just  the  same  with  smoking.  I  don't  sup- 
pose I  should  have  touched  a  cigarette  for  years 
if  smoking  had  not  been  one  of  the  mortal  sins 
in  our  Bedlam  Decalogue.  I  don't  know  whether 
smoking  is  bad  for  boys  or  not;  I  should  think 
not,  as  I  believe  the  Dutch — who  are  sturdy 
fellows — begin  to  puff  fat  cigars  at  the  age  of  six 
or  thereabouts;  but  I  do  know  that  those  pompous 
old  boobies  and  blockheads  and  leather-skulls 

258 


The  Secret  Glory 

have  discovered  exactly  the  best  way  to  make  a 
boy  think  that  a  packet  of  Rosebuds  represents 
the  quintessence  of  frantic  delight. 

"Well,  you  see  how  it  was,  how  Little  Russell 
Row — the  dingy,  the  stuffy,  the  dark  retreat  of 
old  Bloomsbury — became  the  abode  of  miracu- 
lous joys,  a  bright  portion  of  fairyland.  Ah!  it 
was  a  strong  new  wine  that  we  tasted,  and  it  went 
to  our  heads,  and  not  much  wonder.  It  all  rose 
to  its  height  on  that  Thursday  night  when  we 
went  to  the  'Three  Kings'  and  sat  beneath  the  hop 
bush,  drinking  Lion-Brew  and  flowery  drink  as  I 
talked  extravagances  concerning  Panurge.  It 
was  time  for  the  curtain  to  be  rung  down  on  our 
comedy. 

"The  one  cigarette  had  become  three  or  four 
when  Nelly  began  to  tell  me  her  history;  the 
wine  and  the  rejoicing  had  got  into  her  head 
also.  She  described  the  first  things  that  she  re- 
membered: a  little  hut  among  wild  hills  and  stony 
fields  in  the  west  of  Ireland,  and  the  great  sea 
roaring  on  the  shore  but  a  mile  away,  and  the 
wind  and  the  rain  always  driving  from  across  the 
waves.  She  spoke  of  the  place  as  if  she  loved  it, 
though  her  father  and  mother  were  as  poor  as 
they  could  be,  and  little  was  there  to  eat  even  in 
the  old  cabin.  She  remembered  Mass  in  the  little, 
chapel,  an  old,  old  place  hidden  way  in  the  most 
desolate  part  of  the  country,  small  and  dark  and 

259 


The  Secret  Glory 

bare  enough  except  for  the  candles  on  the  altar 
and  a  bright  statue  or  two.  St.  Kieran's  cell, 
they  called  it,  and  it  was  supposed  that  the  Mass 
had  never  ceased  to  be  said  there  even  in  the, 
blackest  days  of  persecution.  Quite  well  she  re- 
membered the  old  priest  and  his  vestments,  and 
the  gestures  that  he  used,  and  how  they  all  bowed 
down  when  the  bell  rang;  she  could  imitate  his 
quavering  voice  saying  the  Latin.  Her  own 
father,  she  said,  was  a  learned  man  in  his  way, 
though  it  was  not  the  English  way.  He  could 
not  read  common  print,  or  write;  he  knew 
nothing  about  printed  books,  but  he  could  say 
a  lot  of  the  old  Irish  songs  and  stories  by  heart, 
and  he  had  sticks  on  which  he  wrote  poems 
on  all  sorts  of  things,  cutting  notches  on  the  wood 
in  Oghams,  as  the  priest  called  them;  and  he  could 
tell  many  wonderful  tales  of  the  saints  and  the 
people.  It  was  a  happy  life  altogether;  they 
were  as  poor  as  poor  could  be,  and  praised  God 
and  wanted  for  nothing.  Then  her  mother  went 
into  a  decline  and  died,  and  her  father  never 
lifted  up  his  head  again,  and  she  was  left  an  or- 
phan when  she  was  nine  years  old.  The  priest 
had  written  to  an  aunt  who  lived  in  England, 
and  so  she  found  herself  one  black  day  standing 
on  the  platform  of  the  station  in  a  horrible  little 
manufacturing  village  in  Lancashire;  everything 
was  black — the  sky  and  the  earth,  and  the  houses 

260 


The  Secret  Glory 

and  the  people;  and  the  sound  of  their  rough, 
harsh  voices  made  her  sick.  And  the  aunt  had 
married  an  Independent  and  turned  Protestant, 
so  she  was  black,  too,  Nelly  thought.  She  was 
wretched  for  a  long  time,  she  said.  The  aunt 
was  kind  enough  to  her,  but  the  place  and  the 
people  were  so  awful.  Mr.  Deakin,  the  husband, 
said  he  couldn't  encourage  Popery  in  his  house, 
so  she  had  to  go  to  the  meeting-house  on  Sunday 
and  listen  to  the  nonsense  they  called  'religion' 
— all  long  sermons  with  horrible  shrieking  hymns. 
By  degrees  she  forgot  her  old  prayers,  and  she 
was  taken  to  the  Dissenters'  Sunday  School,  where 
they  learned  texts  and  heard  about  King  Solo- 
mon's Temple,  and  Jonadab  the  son  of  Rechab, 
and  Jezebel,  and  the  Judges.  They  seemed  to 
think  a  good  deal  of  her  at  the  school;  she  had 
several  prizes  for  Bible  knowledge. 

"She  was  sixteen  when  she  first  went  out  to 
service.  She  was  glad  to  get  away — nothing 
could  be  worse  than  Farnworth,  and  it  might  be 
better.  And  then  there  were  tales  to  tell!  I 
never  have  had  a  clearer  light  thrown  on  the 
curious  and  disgusting  manners  of  the  lower 
middle-class  in  England — the  class  that  prides  it- 
self especially  on  its  respectability,  above  all,  on 
what  it  calls  'Morality' — by  which  it  means  the 
observance  of  one  particular  commandment. 
You  know  the  class  I  mean:  the  brigade  of  the 

261 


The  Secret  Glory 

shining  hat  on  Sunday,  of  the  neat  little  villa  with 
a  well-kept  plot  in  front,  of  the  consecrated  draw- 
ing-room, of  the  big  Bible  well  in  evidence.  It 
is  more  often  Chapel  than  Church,  this  tribe,  but 
it  draws  from  both  sources.  It  is  above  all  things 
shiny — not  only  the  Sunday  hat,  but  the  furni- 
ture, the  linoleum,  the  hair  and  the  very  flesh 
which  pertain  to  these  people  have  an  unwhole- 
some polish  on  them;  and  they  prefer  their  plants 
and  shrubs  to  be  as  glossy  as  possible — this  gens 
lubrica. 

"To  these  tents  poor  Nelly  went  as  a  slave; 
she  dwelt  from  henceforth  on  the  genteel  out- 
skirts of  more  or  less  prosperous  manufacturing 
towns,  and  she  soon  profoundly  regretted  the 
frank  grime  and  hideousness  of  Farnworth.  A 
hedgehog  is  a  rough  and  prickly  fellow — better 
his  prickles  than  the  reptile's  poisonous  slime. 
The  tales  that  yet  await  the  novelist  who  has 
courage  (what  is  his  name,  by  the  way?),  who 
has  the  insight  to  see  behind  those  Venetian 
blinds  and  white  curtains,  who  has  the  word  that 
can  give  him  entrance  through  the  polished  door 
by  the  encaustic  porch!  What  plots,  what  pic- 
tures, what  characters  are  ready  for  his  cunning 
hand,  what  splendid  matter  lies  unknown,  use- 
less, and  indeed  offensive,  which,  in  the  artist's 
crucible,  would  be  transmuted  into  golden  and 
exquisite  perfection.  Do  you  know  that  I  can 

262 


never  penetrate  into  the  regions  where  these 
people  dwell  without  a  thrill  of  wonder  and  a 
great  desire  that  I  might  be  called  to  execute  the 
masterpieces  I  have  hinted  at?  Do  you  remem- 
ber how  Zola,  viewing  these  worlds  from  the 
train  when  he  visited  London,  groaned  because 
he  had  no  English,  because  he  had  no  key  to  open 
the  treasure-house  before  his  eyes?  He,  of 
course,  who  was  a  great  diviner,  saw  the  infinite 
variety  of  romance  that  was  concealed  beneath 
those  myriads  of  snug  commonplace  roofs :  I 
wish  he  could  have  observed  in  English  and  re- 
corded in  French.  He  was  a  brave  man,  his  de- 
fence of  Dreyfus  shows  that;  but,  supposing  the 
capacity,  I  do  not  think  he  was  brave  enough  to 
tell  the  London  surburbs  the  truth  about  them- 
selves in  their  own  tongue. 

"Yes,  I  walk  down  these  long  ways  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  when  they  are  at  their  best.  Some- 
times, if  you  choose  the  right  hour,  you  may  look 
into  one  'breakfast  room' — an  apartment  half 
sunken  in  the  earth — after  another,  and  see  in 
each  one  the  table  laid  for  tea,  showing  the 
charming  order  and  uniformity  that  prevail. 
Tea  in  the  drawing-room  would  be,  I  suppose,  a 
desecration.  I  wonder  what  would  happen  if 
some  chance  guest  were  to  refuse  tea  and  to  ask 
for  a  glass  of  beer,  or  even  a  brandy  and  soda? 
I  suppose  the  central  lake  that  lies  many  hun- 

263 


The  Secret  Glory 

dreds  of  feet  beneath  London  would  rise  up,  and 
the  sinful  town  would  be  overwhelmed.  Yes: 
consider  these  houses  well;  how  demure,  how 
well-ordered,  how  shining,  as  I  have  said;  and 
then  think  of  what  they  conceal. 

"Generally  speaking,  you  know,  'morality'  (in 
the  English  suburban  sense)  has  been  a  tolerably 
equal  matter.  I  shouldn't  imagine  that  those 
'later  Romans'  that  poor  old  Palmer  was  always 
bothering  about  were  much  better  or  worse  than 
the  earlier  Babylonians;  and  London  as  a  whole 
is  very  much  the  same  thing  in  this  respect  as 
Pekin  as  a  whole.  Modern  Berlin  and  sixteenth- 
century  Venice  might  compete  on  equal  terms — 
save  that  Venice,  I  am  sure,  was  very  picturesque, 
and  Berlin,  I  have  no  doubt  is  very  piggy.  The 
fact  is,  of  course  (to  use  a  simple  analogy),  man, 
by  his  nature,  is  always  hungry,  and,  that  being 
the  case,  he  will  sometimes  eat  too  much  dinner 
and  sometimes  he  will  get  his  dinner  in  odd  ways, 
and  sometimes  he  will  help  himself  to  more  or 
less  unlawful  snacks  before  breakfast  and  after 
supper.  There  it  is,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it. 
But  suppose  a  society  in  which  the  fact  of  hunger 
was  officially  denied,  in  which  the  faintest  hint  at 
an  empty  stomach  was  considered  the  rankest, 
most  abominable  indecency,  the  most  detestable 
offence  against  the  most  sacred  religious  feelings? 
Suppose  the  child  severely  reprimanded  at  the 

264 


The  Secret  Glory 

mere  mention  of  bread  and  butter,  whipped  and 
shut  up  in  a  dark  room  for  the  offence  of  reading 
a  recipe  for  making  plum  pudding;  suppose,  I 
say,  a  whole  society  organised  on  the  strict  offi- 
cial understanding  that  no  decent  person  ever  is 
or  has  been  or  can  be  conscious  of  the  physical 
want  of  food;  that  breakfast,  lunch,  tea,  dinner 
and  supper  are  orgies  only  used  by  the  most 
wicked  and  degraded  wretches,  destined  to  an 
awful  and  eternal  doom?  In  such  a  world,  I 
think,  you  would  discover  some  very  striking 
irregularities  in  diet.  Facts  are  known  to  be 
stubborn  things,  but  if  their  very  existence  is 
denied  they  become  ferocious  and  terrible  things. 
Coventry  Patmore  was  angry,  and  with  reason, 
when  he  heard  that  even  at  the  Vatican  the 
statues  had  received  the  order  of  the  fig-leaf. 

"Nelly  went  among  these  Manichees.  She 
had  been  to  the  world  beyond  the  Venetians,  the 
white  muslin  curtains  and  the  india-rubber  plant, 
and  she  told  me  her  report.  They  talk  about 
the  morality  of  the  theatre,  these  swine !  In  the 
theatre — if  there  is  anything  of  the  kind — it  is 
a  case  of  a  wastrel  and  a  wanton  who  meet  and 
part  on  perfectly  equal  terms,  without  deceit  or 
false  pretences.  It  is  not  a  case  of  master  creep- 
ing into  a  young  girl's  room  at  dead  of  night, 
with  a  Bible  under  his  arm — the  said  Bible  be- 
ing used  with  grotesque  skill  to  show  that 

265 


The  Secret  Glory 

'master's'  wishes  must  be  at  once  complied  with 
under  pain  of  severe  punishment,  not  only  in  this 
world,  but  in  the  world  to  come.  Every  Sun- 
day, you  must  remember,  the  girl  has  seen 
'master'  perhaps  crouching  devoutly  in  his  pew, 
perhaps  in  the  part  of  sidesman  or  even  church- 
warden, more  probably  supplementing  the  gifts 
of  the  pastor  at  some  nightmarish  meeting-house. 
'Master'  offers  prayer  with  wonderful  fervour; 
he  speaks  to  the  Lord  as  man  to  man;  in  the  emo- 
tional passages  his  voice  gets  husky,  and  every- 
body says  how  good  he  is.  He  is  a  deacon,  a 
guardian  of  the  poor  (gracious  title!),  a  builder 
and  an  earnest  supporter  of  the  British  and  For- 
eign Bible  Society:  in  a  word,  he  is  of  the  great 
middle-class,  the  backbone  of  England  and  of  the 
Protestant  Religion.  He  subscribes  to  the  ex- 
cellent society  which  prosecutes  booksellers  for 
selling  the  Decameron  of  Boccaccio.  He  has 
from  ten  to  fifteen  children,  all  of  whom  were 
found  by  Mamma  in  the  garden. 

"  'Mr.  King  was  a  horrible  man,'  said  Nelly, 
describing  her  first  place;  'he  had  a  great  greasy 
pale  face  with  red  whiskers,  and  a  shiny  bald 
head;  he  was  fat,  too,  and  when  he  smiled  it 
made  one  feel  sick.  Soon  after  I  got  the  place 
he  came  into  the  kitchen.  Missus  was  away  for 
three  days,  and  the  children  were  all  in  bed.  He 
sat  down  by  the  hearth  and  asked  whether  I  was 

266 


The  Secret  Glory 

saved,  and  did  I  love  the  Lord  as  I  ought  to,  and 
if  I  ever  had  any  bad  thoughts  about  young  men? 
Then  he  opened  the  Bible  and  read  me  nasty 
things  from  the  Old  Testament,  and  asked  if  I 
understood  what  it  meant.  I  said  I  didn't  know, 
and  he  said  we  must  approach  the  Lord  in  prayer 
so  that  we  might  have  grace  to  search  the  Scrip- 
tures together.  I  had  to  kneel  down  close  to 
him,  and  he  put  his  arm  round  my  waist  and  be- 
gan to  pray,  as  he  called  it;  and  when  we  got  up 
he  took  me  on  his  knee  and  said  he  felt  to  me  as 
if  I  were  his  own  daughter.' 

"There,  that  is  enough  of  Mr.  King.  You  can 
imagine  what  the  poor  child  had  to  go  through 
time  after  time.  On  prayer-meeting  nights  she 
used  to  put  the  chest  of  drawers  against  her  bed- 
room door:  there  would  be  gentle,  cautious 
pushes,  and  then  a  soft  voice  murmuring:  'My 
child,  why  is  your  heart  so  bad  and  stubborn?' 
I  think  we  can  conceive  the  general  character  of 
'master'  from  these  examples.  'Missus,'  of 
course,  requires  a  treatise  to  herself;  her  more 
frequent  failings  are  child-torture,  secret  drink- 
ing and  low  amours  with  oily  commercial 
travellers. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  hideous  world  enough,  isn't  it? 
And  isn't  it  a  pleasant  thought  that  you  and  I 
practically  live  under  the  government  of  these 
people?  'Master'  is  the  'man  in  the  street,'  the 

267 


The  Secret  Glory 

'hard-headed,  practical  man  of  the  world,'  'the 
descendant  of  the  sturdy  Puritans,'  whose  judg- 
ment is  final  on  all  questions  from  Poetics  to 
Liturgiology.  We  hardly  think  that  this  picture 
will  commend  itself  to  the  'man  in  the  street' — 
a  course  of  action  that  is  calculated  to  alienate 
practical  men.  Pleasant,  isn't  it?  Suburbia  lo- 
cuta  est:  causa  finita  est. 

"I  suppose  that,  by  nature,  these  people 
would  not  be  so  very  much  more  depraved  than 
the  ordinary  African  black  fellow.  Their  essen- 
tial hideousness  comes,  I  take  it,  from  their  essen- 
tial and  most  abominable  hypocrisy.  You  know 
how  they  are  always  prating  about  Bible  Teach- 
ing— the  'simple  morality  of  the  Gospel,'  and  all 
that  nauseous  stuff?  And  what  would  be  the  ver- 
dict, in  this  suburban  world,  on  a  man  who  took 
no  thought  for  the  morrow,  who  regulated  his 
life  by  the  example  of  the  lilies,  who  scoffed  at 
the  idea  of  saving  money?  You  know  perfectly 
well  that  his  relations  would  have  him  declared 
a  lunatic.  There  is  the  villainy.  If  you  are  con- 
tinually professing  an  idolatrous  and  unctuous 
devotion  to  a  body  of  teaching  which  you  are  also 
persistently  and  perpetually  disregarding  and  dis- 
obeying in  its  plainest,  most  simple,  most  ele- 
mentary injunctions,  well,  you  will  soon  interest 
anglers  in  search  of  bait. 

"Yes,  such  is  the  world  behind  the  india-rubber 
268 


The  Secret  Glory 

plant  into  which  Nelly  entered.  I  believe 
she  repelled  the  advances  of  'master'  with  suc- 
cess. Her  final  undoing  came  from  a  different 
quarter,  and  I  am  afraid  that  drugs,  not  Biblical 
cajoleries,  were  the  instruments  used.  She  cried 
bitterly  when  she  spoke  of  this  event,  but  she 
said,  too;  'I  will  kill  him  for  it!'  It  was  an  ugly 
story,  and  a  sad  one,  alas ! — the  saddest  tale  I 
ever  listened  to.  Think  of  it:  to  come  from  that 
old  cabin  on  the  wild,  bare  hills,  from  the  sound 
of  the  great  sea,  from  the  pure  breath  of  the 
waves  and  the  wet  salt  wind,  to  the  stenches  and 
the  poisons  of  our  'industrial  centres.'  She  came 
from  parents  who  had  nothing  and  possessed  all 
things,  to  our  civilisation  which  has  everything, 
and  lies  on  the  dung-heap  that  it  has  made  at  the 
very  gates  of  Heaven — destitute  of  all  true 
treasures,  full  of  sores  and  vermin  and  corrup- 
tion. She  was  nurtured  on  the  wonderful  old 
legends  of  the  saints  and  the  fairies;  she  had 
listened  to  the  songs  that  her  father  made  and 
cut  in  Oghams;  and  we  gave  her  the  penny  novel- 
ette and  the  works  of  Madame  Chose.  She  had 
knelt  before  the  altar,  adoring  the  most  holy 
sacrifice  of  the  Mass;  now  she  knelt  beside 
'master'  while  he  approached  the  Lord  in  prayer, 
licking  his  fat  white  lips.  I  can  imagine  no  more 
terrible  transition. 

"I  do  not  know  how  or  why  it  happened,  but 
269 


The  Secret  Glory 

as  I  listened  to  Nelly's  tale  my  eyes  were  opened 
to  my  own  work  and  my  own  deeds,  and  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  my  wickedness.  I  should  de- 
spair of  explaining  to  anyone  how  utterly  inno- 
cent I  had  been  in  intention  all  the  while,  how 
far  I  was  from  any  deliberate  design  of  guilt. 
In  a  sense,  I  was  learned,  and  yet,  in  a  sense,  I 
was  most  ignorant;  I  had  been  committing  what 
is,  doubtless  a  grievous  sin,  under  the  impression 
that  I  was  enjoying  the  greatest  of  all  mysteries 
and  graces  and  blessings — the  great  natural 
sacrament  of  human  life. 

"Did  I  not  know  I  was  doing  wrong?  I  knew 
that  if  any  of  the  masters  found  me  with  Nelly  I 
should  get  into  sad  trouble.  Certainly  I  knew 
that.  But  if  any  of  the  masters  had  caught  me 
smoking  a  cigarette,  or  saying  'damn,'  or  going 
into  a  public-house  to  get  a  glass  of  beer,  or  us- 
ing a  crib,  or  reading  Rabelais,  I  should  have  got 
into  sad  trouble  also.  I  knew  that  I  was  sinning 
against  the  'tone'  of  the  great  Public  School;  you 
may  imagine  how  deeply  I  felt  the  guilt  of  such 
an  offence  as  that!  And,  of  course,  I  had  heard 
the  boys  telling  their  foolish  indecencies;  but 
somehow  their  nasty  talk  and  their  filthy  jokes 
were  not  in  any  way  connected  in  my  mind  with 
my  love  of  Nelly — no  more,  indeed,  than  mid- 
night darkness  suggests  daylight,  or  torment  sym- 
bolises pleasure.  Indeed,  there  was  a  hint — a 

270 


The  Secret  Glory 

dim  intuition — deep  down  in  my  consciousness 
that  all  was  not  well;  but  I  knew  of  no  reason 
for  this;  I  held  it  a  morbid  dream,  the  fantasy 
of  an  imagination  over-exalted,  perhaps;  I  would 
not  listen  to  a  faint  voice  that  seemed  without 
sense  or  argument. 

"And  now  that  voice  was  ringing  in  my  ears 
with  the  clear,  resonant  and  piercing  summons  of 
a  trumpet;  I  saw  myself  arraigned  far  down  be- 
side the  pestilent  horde  of  whom  I  have  just 
spoken;  and,  indeed,  my  sin  was  worse  than 
theirs,  for  I  had  been  bred  in  light,  and  they  in 
darkness.  All  heedless,  without  knowledge, 
without  preparation,  without  receiving  the  mystic 
word,  I  had  stumbled  into  the  shrine,  uninitiated 
I  had  passed  beyond  the  veil  and  gazed  upon  the 
hidden  mystery,  on  the  secret  glory  that  is 
concealed  from  the  holy  angels.  Woe  and  great 
sorrow  were  upon  me,  as  if  a  priest,  devoutly 
offering  the  sacrifice,  were  suddenly  to  become 
aware  that  he  was  uttering,  all  inadvertently, 
hideous  and  profane  blasphemies,  summoning 
Satan  in  place  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  I  hid  my  face 
in  my  hands  and  cried  out  in  my  anguish. 

"Do  you  know  that  I  think  Nelly  was  in  a 
sense  relieved  when  I  tried  to  tell  her  of  my 
mistake,  as  I  called  it;  even  though  I  said,  as 
gently  as  I  could,  that  it  was  all  over.  She  was 
relieved,  because  for  the  first  time  she  felt  quite 

271 


The  Secret  Glory 

sure  that  I  was  altogether  in  my  senses;  I  can 
understand  it.  My  whole  attitude  must  have 
struck  her  as  bordering  on  insanity,  for,  of 
course,  from  first  to  last  I  had  never  for  a  mo- 
ment taken  up  the  position  of  the  unrepentant  but 
cheerful  sinner,  who  knows  that  he  is  being  a  sad 
dog,  but  means  to  continue  in  his  naughty  way. 
She,  with  her  evil  experience,  had  thought  the 
words  I  had  sometimes  uttered  not  remote  from 
madness.  She  wondered,  she  told  me,  whether 
one  night  I  might  not  suddenly  take  her  throat 
in  my  hands  and  strangle  her  in  a  sudden  frenzy. 
She  hardly  knew  whether  she  dreaded  such  a 
death  or  longed  for  it. 

"  'You  spoke  so  strangely,'  she  said;  'and  all 
the  while  I  knew  we  were  doing  wrong,  and  I 
wondered.' 

"Of  course,  even  after  I  had  explained  the 
matter  as  well  as  I  could  she  was  left  to  a  large 
extent  bewildered  as  to  what  my  state  of  mind 
could  have  been;  still,  she  saw  that  I  was  not 
mad,  and  she  was  relieved,  as  I  have  said. 

"I  do  not  know  how  she  was  first  drawn  to  me 
— how  it  was  that  she  stole  that  night  to  the 
room  where  I  lay  bruised  and  aching.  Pity  and 
desire  and  revenge,  I  suppose,  all  had  their  share. 
She  was  so  sorry,  she  said,  for  me.  She  could 
see  how  lonely  I  was,  how  I  hated  the  place  and 
everybody  about  it,  and  she  knew  that  I  was  not 

272 


The  Secret  Glory 

English.  I  think  my  wild  Welsh  face  attracted 
her,  too. 

"Alas!  that  was  a  sad  night,  after  all  our 
laughter.  We  had  sat  on  and  on  till  the  dawn 
began  to  come  in  through  the  drawn  blinds.  I 
told  her  that  we  must  go  to  bed,  or  we  should 
never  get  up  the  next  day.  We  went  into  the 
bedroom,  and  there,  sad  and  grey,  the  dawn  ap- 
peared. There  was  a  heavy  sky  covered  with 
clouds  and  a  straight,  soft  rain  was  pattering  on 
the  leaves  of  a  great  plane  tree  opposite;  heavy 
drops  fell  into  the  pools  in  the  road. 

"It  was  still  as  on  the  mountain,  filled  with 
infinite  sadness,  and  a  sudden  step  clattering  on 
the  pavement  of  the  square  beyond  made  the  still- 
ness seem  all  the  more  profound.  I  stood  by  the 
window  and  gazed  out  at  the  weeping,  dripping 
tree,  the  ever-falling  rain  and  the  motionless, 
leaden  clouds — there  was  no  breath  of  wind — and 
it  was  as  if  I  heard  the  saddest  of  all  music,  tones 
of  anguish  and  despair  and  notes  that  cried  and 
wept.  The  theme  was  given  out,  itself  wet,  as  it 
were,  with  tears.  It  was  repeated  with  a  sharper 
cry,  a  more  piteous  supplication;  it  was  re-echoed 
with  a  bitter  utterance,  and  tears  fell  faster  as 
the  raindrops  fell  plashing  from  the  weeping 
tree.  Inexorable  in  its  sad  reiterations,  in  its  re- 
morseless development,  that  music  wailed  and 
grew  in  its  lamentation  in  my  own  heart;  heavy 

273 


The  Secret  Glory 

it  was,  and  without  hope;  heavy  as  those  still, 
leaden  clouds  that  hung  motionless  in  heaven. 
No  relief  came  to  this  sorrowing  melody — rather 
a  sharper  note  of  anguish;  and  then  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  to  embitter  bitterness,  sounded  a  fan- 
tastic, laughing  air,  a  measure  of  jocund  pipes 
and  rushing  violins,  echoing  with  the  mirth  of 
dancing  feet.  But  it  was  beaten  into  dust  by  the 
sentence  of  despair,  by  doom  that  was  for  ever, 
by  a  sentence  pitiless,  relentless;  and,  as  a  sudden 
breath  shook  the  wet  boughs  of  the  plane  tree 
and  a  torrent  fell  upon  the  road,  so  the  last  notes 
of  that  inner  jriusic  were  to  me  as  a  burst  of  hope- 
less weeping. 

"I  turned  away  from  the  window  and  looked 
at  the  dingy  little  room  where  we  had  laughed  so 
well.  It  was  a  sad  room  enough,  with  its  pale 
blue,  stripy-patterned  paper,  its  rickety  old  fur- 
niture and  its  feeble  pictures.  The  only  note  of 
gaiety  was  on  the  dressing-table,  where  poor  little 
Nelly  had  arranged  some  toys  and  trinkets  and 
fantasies  that  she  had  bought  for  herself  in  the 
last  few  days.  There  was  a  silver-handled  brush 
and  a  flagon  of  some  scent  that  I  liked,  and  a 
little  brooch  of  olivines  that  had  caught  her 
fancy;  and  a  powder-puff  in  a  pretty  gilt  box. 
The  sight  of  these  foolish  things  cut  me  to  the 
heart.  But  Nelly!  She  was  standing  by  the 
bedside,  half  undressed,  and  she  looked  at  me 

274 


The  Secret  Glory 

with  the  most  piteous  longing.  I  think  that  she 
had  really  grown  fond  of  me.  I  suppose  that  I 
shall  never  forget  the  sad  enchantment  of  her 
face,  the  flowing  of  her  beautiful  coppery  hair 
about  it;  and  the  tears  were  wet  on  her  cheeks. 
She  half  stretched  out  her  bare  arms  to  me  and 
then  let  them  fall.  I  had  never  known  all  her 
strange  allurement  before.  I  had  refined  and 
symbolised  and  made  her  into  a  sign  of  joy,  and 
now  before  me  she  shone  disarrayed — not  a  sym- 
bol, but  a  woman,  in  the  new  intelligence  that  had 
come  to  me,  and  I  longed  for  her.  I  had  just 
enough  strength  and  no  more." 


275 


EPILOGUE 

IT   is   unfortunate — or    fortunate:    that   is    a 
matter   to   be    settled  by  the   taste    of   the 
reader — that     with     this     episode     of     the 
visit  to  London  all  detailed  material  for  the  life 
of   Ambrose    Meyrick   comes   to   an  end.     Odd 
scraps  of  information,  stray  notes  and  jottings 
are  all  that  is  available,  and  the  rest  of  Mey- 
rick's   life   must  be   left   in  dim   and   somewhat 
legendary  outline. 

Personally,  I  think  that  this  failure  of  docu- 
ments is  to  be  lamented.  The  four  preceding 
chapters  have,  in  the  main,  dealt  with  the  years 
of  boyhood,  and  therefore  with  a  multitude  of 
follies.  One  is  inclined  to  wonder,  as  poor  Nelly 
wondered,  whether  the  lad  was  quite  right  in  his 
head.  It  is  possible  that  if  we  had  fuller  in- 
formation as  to  his  later  years  we  might  be  able 
to  dismiss  him  as  decidely  eccentric,  but  well- 
meaning  on  the  'whole. 

But,  after  all,  I  cannot  be  confident  that  he 
would  get  off  so  easily.  Certainly  he  did  not 
repeat  the  adventure  of  Little  Russell  Row,  nor, 
so  far  as  I  am  aware,  did  he  address  anyone 

276 


The  Secret  Glory 

besides  his  old  schoolmaster  in  a  Rabelai- 
sian epistle.  There  are  certain  acts  of  lunacy 
which  are  like  certain  acts  of  heroism:  they 
are  hardly  to  be  achieved  twice  by  the  same 
men. 

But  Meyrick  continued  to  do  odd  things.  He 
became  a  strolling  player  instead  of  becoming  a 
scholar  of  Balliol.  If  he  had  proceeded  to  the 
University,  he  would  have  encountered  the  for- 
mative and  salutary  influence  of  Jowett.  He 
wandered  up  and  down  the  country  for  two  or 
three  years  with  the  actors,  and  writes  the  fol- 
lowing apostrophe  to  the  memory  of  his  old  com- 
pany. 

"I  take  off  my  hat  when  I  hear  the  old  music, 
for  I  think  of  the  old  friends  and  the  old  days; 
of  the  theatre  in  the  meadows  by  the  sacred  river, 
and  the  swelling  song  of  the  nightingales  on 
sweet,  spring  nights.  There  is  no  doubt  that  we 
may  safely  hold  with  Plato  his  opinion,  and  safely 
may  we  believe  that  all  brave  earthly  shows  are 
but  broken  copies  and  dim  lineaments  of  immor- 
tal things.  Therefore,  I  hope  and  trust  that  I 
shall  again  be  gathered  unto  the  true  Hathaway 
Company  qua  sursum  est,  which  is  the  purged 
and  exalted  image  of  the  lower,  which  plays  for 
ever  a  great  mystery  in  the  theatre  of  the  mea- 
dows of  asphodel,  which  wanders  by  the  happy, 
shining  streams,  and  drinks  from  an  Eternal  Cup 

277 


The  Secret  Glory 

in  a  high  and  blissful  and  everlasting  Tavern. 
A've,  cara  sodalitas,  ave  semper." 

Thus  does  he  translate  into  wild  speech  crepe 
hair  and  grease  paints,  dirty  dressing-rooms  and 
dirtier  lodgings.  And  when  his  strolling  days 
were  over  he  settled  down  in  London,  paying  oc- 
casional visits  to  his  old  home  in  the  west.  He 
wrote  three  or  four  books  which  are  curious  and 
interesting  in  their  way,  though  they  will  never 
be  popular.  And  finally  he  went  on  a  strange 
errand  to  the  East;  and  from  the  East  there  was 
for  him  no  returning. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  he  speaks  of  a 
Celtic  cup,  which  had  been  preserved  in  one 
family  for  many  hundred  years.  On  the  death 
of  the  last  "Keeper"  this  cup  was  placed  in  Mey- 
rick's  charge.  He  received  it  with  the  condition 
that  it  was  to  be  taken  to  a  certain  concealed 
shrine  in  Asia  and  there  deposited  in  hands  that 
would  know  how  to  hide  its  glories  for  ever  from 
the  evil  world. 

He  went  on  this  journey  into  unknown  regions, 
travelling  by  ragged  roads  and  mountain  passes, 
by  the  sandy  wilderness  and  the  mighty  river. 
And  he  forded  his  way  by  the  quaking  and 
dubious  track  that  winds  in  and  out  among  the 
dangers  and  desolations  of  the  Kemr —  the  great 
salt  slough. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  place  appointed  and 
278 


The  Secret  Glory 

gave  the  word  and  the  treasure  to  those  who 
known  how  to  wear  a  mask  and  to  keep  well  the 
things  which  are  committed  to  them,  and  then 
set  out  on  his  journey  back.  He  had  reached 
a  point  not  very  far  from  the  gates  of  West  and 
halted  for  a  day  or  two  amongst  Christians,  be- 
ing tired  out  with  a  weary  pilgrimage.  But  the 
Turks  or  the  Kurds — it  does  not  matter  which — 
descended  on  the  place  and  worked  their  custom- 
ary works,  and  so  Ambrose  was  taken  by  them. 

One  of  the  native  Christians,  who  had  hidden 
himself  from  the  miscreants,  told  afterwards  how 
he  saw  "the  stranger  Ambrosian"  brought  out, 
and  how  they  held  before  him  the  image  of  the 
Crucified  that  he  might  spit  upon  it  and  trample 
it  under  his  feet.  But  he  kissed  the  icon  with 
great  joy  and  penitence  and  devotion.  So  they 
bore  him  to  a  tree  outside  the  village  and  cruci- 
fied him  there. 

And  after  he  had  hung  on  the  tree  some  hours, 
the  infidels,  enraged,  as  it  is  said,  by  the  shining 
rapture  of  his  face,  killed  him  with  their  spears. 

It  was  in  this  manner  that  Ambrose  Meyrick 
gained  Red  Martyrdom  and  achieved  the  most 
glorious  Quest  and  Adventure  of  the  Sangraal. 


THE    END 

279 


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